


Womb Kindred

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angry Castiel, Castiel POV, Dean POV, Forced Separation, Guilty Dean, Kid Fic, M/M, Meddling Family, Past Mpreg, Reunion, Secret kid, bad break up, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was probably too much to hope for that Castiel's once-betrothed, Dean of Winchester, never found out that they had a child together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially written as a bunch of ficlets on tumblr! This fast-and-loose medieval fantasy realm uses elements borrowed from all over the place. The term “womb kindred”, for example, is from my reading of Henrietta Leyser’s Medieval Women (pg. 44, Law Codes):
> 
> _Seventh-century Irish lawyers made room for primary wives and secondary wives, for a variety of unions that might, or might not be official. As in England the lawyers' main concern was with property and the rights of heirs. These were ranked according to the status of the mother; the male progeny of a chief wife could be called sons, whereas a so-called 'woman of recognition' had 'womb-kindred' and a woman whose liaison was unofficial only had 'belly-kindred'._

The sound of horses in this part of the woods isn’t unusual, but as far as Castiel knows, the next hunt is weeks away. The Duke may be neglectful and distant, but he’s always let Castiel and the other guardians of the park know in advance before anyone is expected to pass through his land, if only to ensure that they will have supplies and food waiting for them as is necessary. 

That Castiel can hear horses approaching now could mean that these are intruders, perhaps foolish marauders passing through, or even poachers. Castiel puts down the dough he’d been working on and stands up, quickly scanning the room for things that such thieves might want to take from his cottage. The firewood, perhaps, or maybe the spun wool, put aside for market day.

Most important of all, though – “Claire?” 

Castiel turns. She isn’t in her lit corner of the room, where she’s supposed to be doing her reading. Castiel vaguely remembers her saying that she was going to the well, but that was a while ago. No doubt she’d gotten distracted on the way back. “Claire!”

Castiel moves to the window, scanning the herb garden outside. She isn’t there either, so he grabs the broom – which will have to do for now – and rushes outside, where the steady stampede is approaching still. 

Claire is down by the path, basket in arm and head turned to the oncoming distraction.

“Claire!” Castiel shouts.

This finally has his daughter moving, slightly unbalanced in her surprise as she runs back to the cottage. It was curiosity that delayed her, but she ducks her head now in acknowledged guilt. Castiel doesn’t reprimand her as she moves past him, disappearing into the woefully unsecure cottage that is their home.

Castiel could stay inside, pretend that the cottage is empty. But there are risks in that as well, and not all the Duke’s friends are kind. He stands there waiting, hoping, that the traveling party will move elsewhere.

They don’t. 

Castiel sees the standard-bearer first, and carefully puts the broom down. Clasps his hands in his lap. Waits.

He can see the individual horses now. Better yet, these are horses in livery, mounted by a party dressed in velvet and feathered caps. No carts or carriages with them, so this group wishes to move quickly. There are fewer than a dozen in all, but Castiel doesn’t have enough to feed all of them. He prays Claire won’t go hungry tonight.

That worry – a common one, during winter – dissipates when a woman brings her horse forward. She is tall and beautiful, with sharp eyes and fair hair twisted in elegant knots. Such a proud face commands obedience, and Castiel would pause at the sight of her even if he didn’t know her. But as it is, he does know her, and Castiel pauses for entirely different reasons.

“Good morning,” she says. No doubt she would continue into an introduction and the reasons for their passing through the park, but then recognition lights her eyes, stutters the words from her mouth. She blinks a few times, while her mouth works silently over his name.

“I am of the Duke’s service,” Castiel says.

She shakes her head, recovering. “And we are on our way to see him. We were directed on your way to…”

Castiel had feared this day – or a day like it – for so long. Too long, perhaps. The years have worn down the fear, made it less substantial. If this happened a few years ago, Castiel would have likely reacted with rage and panic, which would’ve likely led into threatening shouts. As it is, the sound of door behind him creaking open has Castiel’s breath catching, but little else.

Lady Mary’s eyes drift away from Castiel, to the little form of Claire who is no doubt peeking out through the cottage doorway. Castiel dare not look at his daughter, so he sees the way that Mary’s brow furrows, questions forming behind her eyes.

Then Lady Mary dismounts. Most of her party follows suit, though Castiel doubts any of them understand why their mistress is now stepping forward, a hand out to gesture at the child that has caught her attention.

Perhaps it’s better this way. There are far worse scenarios that Castiel’s contemplated over the years, and Lady Mary is… manageable. Castiel is calm enough to stand aside as Mary lowers herself onto a knee, and Claire steps forward to curtsy. 

“What is your name?” Mary asks.

“Claire, milady,” Claire says. “Good morrow and God bless you.”

“And you,” Mary says, smiling. 

More surprising than Mary’s appearance is seeing Mary and Claire in the same place. It is a shock to see irrefutable evidence that Claire – whose face Castiel has known and loved all her life – has taken some of her features from other faces Castiel has chosen to exorcise from his life. There it is: in the dip of chin, the angle of her nose, the shade of her hair. Mary would not see this, of course, owing that people do not memorize their own faces. Mary would see _another_ face, with eyes that closer match Claire’s in shade.

“Yes,” Mary says, a little thinly. “We wish to buy some cheese and cured meats, if you have any.”

“We’re not allowed meat, except after His Grace has been on a hunt,” Claire says. “But we do have cheese.”

“Fetch some,” Castiel says quietly. “The wrapped pieces, you know the ones.”

After another curtsy, Claire is off, disappearing into the cottage to fulfil her charge. The door has barely swung shut when Mary is stepping close to Castiel and saying, “How old is she?” 

“You know how old she is,” Castiel replies.

Mary takes the rebuke with a graceful nod. “Then she will soon be old enough for placement. Her education is important.”

“That is my purview,” Castiel says.

“God placed me on this path,” Mary says. “This child—”

“My child,” Castiel says.

Mary may be a kind mistress, but she is of an ancient family, with all of their associated assumptions and beliefs. She smiles again, indulgently. “She should not want for opportunities. It is unfair—”

“I’m not part of your family,” Castiel says. At this, finally, Mary’s façade cracks, her eyes dropping in acknowledgement of old hurts not forgotten. “So neither is my daughter. You will move to your destination. You will forget both of us.”

Mary’s mouth quirks. Castiel has seen that expression countless times, but on a masculine a face. It makes Castiel look away, if only for self-preservation, before he remembers himself and forcibly meets Mary’s gaze, frowning.

“You can play peasant,” Mary says quietly, secretly. “But you will never be free of your lineage.”

“I am not playing. I have chosen this.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “So I am to tell no one of this. Not even…?”

“ _Especially_ not.” Castiel realizes, belatedly, that he hasn’t bowed before her. He should have, the moment she spoke to him. Castiel wonders if the others watching from a polite distance have noticed. “He made his own choice. I respected that.”

“That choice was for you, as well,” Mary reminds him gently. “Though I’d wager he’dve chosen differently if he knew of… this.”

“Ah, but I am selfish,” Castiel says mockingly. “I’d rather he chose me for _me_. It was easier for all of us this way, though, wasn’t it?”

“Easier,” Mary echoes. “You truly believe it was easy for him? He thought you went into a monastery, like you always wanted.”

Castiel fixes a polite smile on his face as he draws away from her. His hands are back in his lap, clasped together with deference. “If there’s anything else your companions wish, milady? Your horses need seeing to?”

Mary sighs, but she accepts his final word with an incline of her head. “No, that’s all, thank you.”

There is no more talk aside from what is necessary for the transaction. Castiel stands back, letting Claire make the trade as she’s seen Castiel do many times in the village. If Mary is overly generous with her payment, then that is to her own detriment; those extra coins will find good use in clothing a growing child.

When the group finally leaves, the others in the party pay them no mind, but Mary glances back, her eyes full of longing. Castiel wonders idly if she has other grandchildren by now, or if Sam and his brother have yet to fulfil their family duty. Either way, Claire would be the oldest.

Castiel turns to her now, where she’s leaning against his leg. Claire watches the party disappear into the woods, and then lifts those eyes up to her father. 

“That was interesting,” Claire says.

“Wasn’t it?” Castiel replies. 

Claire is smarter, sharper than Castiel was at this age, and soon she will be asking the questions Castiel has spent years preparing to answer. Not today, though, Castiel thinks. If he knows her, she will spend a few days ruminating over this encounter, distilling all that curiosity of hers into a few decimating questions she will drop on him when he least expects it. That is her way.

For now, Claire drifts away, turning back to the cottage and the abandoned books inside. Castiel watches her go, and then looks down at his hands. They are cold.


	2. Chapter 2

If pressed, it would be difficult for Dean to explain precisely what made him turn in that particular direction, on that particular day, in that particular place. 

Perhaps it’s providence, or an instinct of the body, or even St. Abaddon being particularly efficient upon a well-wisher who’d paid tribute in her shrine less than an hour prior. Such phenomena aren’t even unusual for Dean of Winchester, who’s more than once only kept his head on his shoulders simply because he’d looked in the right direction at the right time on the battlefield.

Whatever the reasons, it is an undisputed truth that Dean is standing in an unfamiliar marketplace at the height of day, and he turns his head at a particular moment for his eye to be caught by a moving body that is, by all accounts, just like the other hundreds of bodies moving about the square in search of a good sale.

Perhaps it’s the shape of the body that’s snagged his attention, or their body language as they move between the stalls. There is familiarity in the sight, though Dean’s conscious thoughts can’t discern what that familiarity is, so it is natural for Dean to be curious and compelled to move forward.

It isn’t even Dean’s choice to be out here today, dressed like common folk and without a single escort by his side. If he were to follow the plan he’d be out hunting with the others, but Mary had been correct in her summation that Dean would’ve just used the outing to find a new way to annoy the Duke of Crowley. Dean knows that the Duke’s hospitality is difficult to earn and even harder to keep, but sometimes Dean is a cliché of a knightly firstborn, made for the sword and less for diplomacy.

Better to stay at the castle, Mary said. Better to enjoy the duchy’s homegrown wares and find some trinket to bring home for Sam, sulking as he is back in Winchester.

But it isn’t the lure of trinkets that moves Dean now, muttering, “Excuse me, pardon me” as he pushes his way through the throng of merchants, farmers and livery-wearing servants pressed together in a swell of business. It’s one body, seemingly indistinct from the others. 

A _mystery_ , Dean thinks with some excitement. Perhaps it’s one of their servants stealing time away from their duties, or one of Crowley’s fellows up to no good, or maybe a spy sent by one of their enemies.

Or – as he stops in front of his target and nearly trips over his own feet – it could be the one person around whom rotates both the best moments and worst moments of Dean’s life. Past life. Life of the past, which is in the past.

Dean could run, if only to buy a few seconds to gather his wits. He even has the opportunity for it, because Castiel has yet to register his presence, as focused as he is on positioning a cart.

But Dean squanders the opportunity because Castiel does notice him then, and he’s turning, straightening, and despite the thick dark beard he now wears, above them are the eyes of blue Dean once insisted could never be replicated in paint nor jewel nor tapestry. The long years since then have rendered that memory foolhardy, but now Dean sees that his young self was very right about that. 

Dean opens his mouth.

He’s dreamed of this moment. Fantasized about it countless times, even when the years went by and the world stayed obstinate about keeping its secrets. Those fantasies flood forward now, demanding his attention – so many possibilities, so many things to say, so many varied ways to make an impression upon the man that has frozen still in surprise but might not remember him. 

Dean tries to speak, but what comes out is a laugh. 

A loud, embarrassing, unnaturally frantic laugh – the kind that sometimes spills out when Mary makes him lead prayers for the household, the members of which know he would rather be dancing naked in the chapel than do such a thing. Dean may be a firstborn, but he isn’t a good firstborn. Neither is he good at filtering out the noise in his head to make words when he panics. 

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Out of the way,” he says. Curt and commanding, just the way Dean remembers. “You’re blocking my customers.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right. Yes. Right.”

Dean steps to the side only to come up against another cart, and then clumsily turns in a circle before realizing that there’s only the sellers to the left and right, but no waiting customers. Maybe he means _potential_ customers, since Castiel is setting up his offerings.

Is it wrong to feel an acute, fierce joy in this moment? Dean thinks it should be, when their last moments together had been filled with anger and regret. Dean knows that that’s why Castiel’s pointedly ignoring him now, and Dean knows and accepts the fact that he deserves this rage a hundred times over.

Yet, this is Castiel. This is _Cas_ , whom Dean feared had perished in some cold, terrible corner of the world, alone and unknown. There was also the fear that Castiel’s family – liars and tricksters, most of them – had even done away with him, to be rid of the supposedly shameful choices Castiel made. It wouldn’t be the first time a family pretended one of their own never existed at all.

Here is evidence that that didn’t happen, for Castiel is alive and whole and healthy, and it is Dean’s most impassioned prayer fulfilled. Dean thinks, a little hysterically, that he’s never been as religious as he is in this moment – which is in some ways appropriate, seeing that he’s standing in front of a man of God.

Dean’s eyes drift down Castiel’s body, taking the cloak, breeches and boots, and mentally revises that to: an _ascetic_ man of God. Castiel never cared much for the luxury of the mainstream church, so this makes sense. Perhaps he’s a friar of that movement Dean doesn’t know the name for. If Sam were here, he’d know.

Castiel looks up, scowl returning when he sees that Dean is still here. 

“I’ve never seen this kind habit before,” Dean says.

“It’s a new school.” That’s Castiel’s sarcasm, as familiar as the glare and the scowl. 

It makes Dean pause somewhat, making him focus on what he’s actually seeing. There are Castiel’s clothes, worn but functional and clean. There are Castiel’s hands, roughened from physical work. There’s the cart, which is old and patched up in a few places, and is laden with only a few items – wool and some dried plants in baskets. There are no markings of any church anywhere to be seen. These are a peasant’s effects.

“Cas.” The next words come out in a rush: “How are you? How long have you been here? Do you live here? They wouldn’t tell me where you went—”

“I’m trying to sell my wares,” Castiel snaps. Then, quieter: “I need this, please.”

The roar in Dean’s heart gradually quietens. His body is still vibrating, but as that first rush of shock and joy settles, Dean can process what he initially missed.

Castiel is proud – or _was_ proud, the last Dean knew him. If that part of him is the same, Castiel wouldn’t hesitate to put Dean in his place with a few words. Goodness knows even the earliest days of their friendship Castiel refused to mince words around Dean, who heartily deserved it. No one else in the world could cut to the truth of Dean, save for Cas.

Now, initial sarcasm aside, Castiel is trying his best not to speak at all. His hands are coarse, his skin is tanned, his neck – partially hidden as it is beneath the beard and cloak – is thin. 

“Let me…” Dean looks at the cart. “Let me buy from you.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “What would you like to purchase?”

“All of it? No, no, I’m not jesting, I have money. How… how much is it?”

“Twenty shillings.” Castiel sighs when Dean quickly fumbles with his belt, searching for his money pouch. “No, that’s not—”

“No, you gave me a price,” Dean says. “That is what I’ll pay.”

“How will you carry all of this?”

“Oh. Ah.”

“Another shilling and you can have my spare sack,” Castiel says. “I’ll pack everything for you.”

“Yes, very good, excellent.” Dean stands there, awkward and useless as Castiel crouches down to start work.

Sometimes Dean surprises himself by how selfish he can be. Like in this moment, a good person would walk away and leave Castiel to his peace, but Dean isn’t a good person. Dean is a selfish person who wants to stay here for as long as is possible, for this might be all he ever gets, for the rest of his life. Goodness knows Dean didn’t understand how precious it was, what he and Cas had when they were young, and how easily it could be taken away when alliances and family priorities shifted.

Some people never even get that much, Dean reminds himself. Some people never experience the heady rush of joy and understanding and tenderness that is possible in a partner _at all_ their entire lives, so the few years he and Cas had… he should be grateful for that. He _is_ grateful for that.

He is also grateful for these few minutes, though Cas isn’t looking at him and refuses to respond to anything Dean says. Dean bites his lip to stop himself from offering his own answers to questions that Cas will never ask. 

Does Cas know that Dean left to fight the ice folk a few days before Cas’ wedding to Bartholomew, because he couldn’t bear to stay in the country? Does Cas know Dean founded a new Winchester shrine when he’d heard that Cas chose the church over getting married?

Does Cas know that Dean never married either?

Maybe he already knows, and just doesn’t care. Maybe Cas only remembers him as some distant, youthful mistake, an experience to be learned from and set aside. Cas always was the more intelligent of the two of them. Maybe Dean is the fool here again, assuming that Cas isn’t exactly where he wants to be, living exactly the kind of life he’s wanted. 

“Are you…” Dean’s mouth is dry. “I know I don’t deserve to ask a single question of you, but there’s just one… just one thing, and I’ll go on my way, I swear.”

Castiel keeps wrapping the items carefully.

“Are you happy?” Dean asks. “Do you – do you have someone in your life who, um… who makes you happy?”

Cas’ hands go still. The scowl finally eases up, and is gradually replaced by a soft, fond look that takes Dean’s breath away.

“Yes,” Cas says. “I do.”

That certainly answers few questions. Now Dean knows that he needn’t worry about Cas. Dean also knows that he is a fucking liar for convincing himself that what he felt for Cas was long extinguished. 

“Good,” Dean hears himself say. “I’m glad.” 

He is glad. He is. Knowing this is just as good – actually, even better – than knowing that Cas is alive and well. Cas’ happiness is the one of the most important things in the world, especially considering how in the past Dean proved again and again that of the many skills he had, being the best for Cas wasn’t one of them. Dean is glad that someone else has done better.

Dean holds on to this truth as Castiel hands him his brand new purchases and accepts the offered coins. Perhaps the wool can be used to make shirts, and Dean can have a personal brand of hair shirts. The money will go to Castiel’s betterment, too, which is more than Dean’s been able to give him before.

Dean is grateful.

“Thank you,” Dean says. “I… yes. Good day.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, which is for the best. Dean still has a hope of making an exit that’s more dignified than his entry, and he need only turn around and walk away, back to the keep, back to the rest of his life.

Except, as Dean’s just taken the first few steps in that plan, he hears a young, prominent voice: “Father.” Then again, crossly, “ _Father_.” 

Despite himself, Dean turns to look. 

A child has latched herself to Castiel’s side, hands grabbing at his cloak. A child with hair tucked underneath a scarf, dressed in clothes that are simple but clean, and with a scowl as fierce as any child can muster.

“Father,” she says again. Castiel is whispering frantically at the child, something about waiting somewhere for him, but the child is having none of it. She shakes her head and says, “They won’t give me any books unless you’re there.”

The same formless energy that brought Dean here in the first place does its trick again, dragging Dean step by unconscious step back to the cart, and then lowering him down onto a knee so that he can properly consider this child, this girl. A young girl (six or seven, no, she must be six) with a pointed nose and fair hair and freckles across her rosy cheeks.

“Hey,” Dean says. “Hello.”

The girl has a forceful, scrutinizing stare. “Hello.”

“I’m Dean. I’m a…” friend, former friend, former beloved, acquaintance, “…I don’t think we’ve met.”

The girl looks up at her father, then back at Dean. “My name’s Claire, sir.”

“Claire,” Dean echoes, pleased at the way it sounds. “As in St. Claire? Were you born on St. Claire’s day?”

“Yes, sir.”

St. Claire’s Day, early spring. It’s a quiet time, between the solstice celebrations and the new year’s sun. A secluded monastery would be a good, safe choice for a clandestine birth, especially if there’s money to smoothen the process.

Claire’s cheeks are full of color, and her eyes sharp with intelligence. She is well-cared for. 

“You’re beautiful.” Dean looks up at Castiel. “She’s beautiful.”

Castiel must know Dean’s words are true, but he doesn’t seem to find them flattering. His eyes are full of fear, his face a rictus of distress. In his silent agony Dean sees a glimpse of the choices Castiel must have made over the years. 

Dean stands up slowly, holding Castiel’s gaze. 

What Dean wants to say is: _when did you realize you were with child?_

What Dean does say is: “Your daughter is a treasure.”

“I.” Castiel coughs hoarsely, clearing his throat. “I know.”

A part of Dean wants to be angry. At Castiel’s family, at Dean’s family, at all the other families in this godforsaken realm that can’t seem to want to just be but instead get caught up in quests for power, wealth and prestige, and damn all the folk that get in the way. But Dean’s had a lot of time to be angry at all those things, and here is merely another, closer, more personal reason to be angry.

Cas clearly expects Dean to be angry with _him_. Or at least, to demand things that Cas isn’t ready to or has no interest in giving. Dean doesn’t blame him for that, either. Cas may have a stare full of threats, but there is also fear there, now that the sanctuary he’s made for them has been breached. He has a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, a bracing touch in case someone were to try to grab his child and take her away. Cas has always been smart, for there is a vile part of Dean that wants to do exactly that, though not just to her, but to the pair of them. 

He won’t, though. Dean is still civilized enough to say, “You take care of your father, Claire.”

Castiel swallows, his eyes steady on Dean’s face.

It should be harder to walk away this time, but it isn’t, not with Castiel clearly expecting the worst.

Dean leaves father and daughter to their business with new energy in his step, his mind already racing. He’d always known that Cas was brave, but this is beyond all of that. A child – a _daughter_. Not to mention that Dean has another failure to add to his long list of failures; although he can never make that right, there are things he can do to make it better, even if just a little bit. This changes so many things. 

Dean has to be careful about it, though. Mother must never know that her line has another biological heir.


	3. Chapter 3

The logical thing to do would’ve been to leave. Castiel should have started planning their flight as soon as Mary Campbell found them. Their belongings are few, there’s been little fighting since campaign season passed, and the security of the Duke’s park is a small price to give up for security against the Campbells. 

The challenge that held Castiel back was money. He reasoned that he had some time to gather appropriate funds; that a few trips to market would be enough to cover the start of their journey.

Then the worst went and happened: Dean met his daughter.

Castiel still isn’t sure how to feel about that. He should be relieved, because Dean didn’t yell or curse or try to take Claire away. Yet it’s disappointing that Dean didn’t try do any of those things, because a confrontation could’ve been a satisfying outlet for Castiel’s anger.

Instead, Dean was softer than he had any right to be. He was gentle, curious, and awkward, as though he was still that young boy of years ago who tripped over his own feet and made Castiel drop his belongings on the way to lessons, and then spent ages trying to make it up to someone he barely even knew at the time. 

Worst still was the way Dean’s face lit up at the sight of Claire. There was wonderment and delight as he gazed at his daughter, and Castiel hadn’t expected that. To be more accurate, Castiel hadn’t _wanted_ that. That’s the thing about Dean of Winchester; even when Castiel knew him well he couldn’t accurately predict how Dean would react to anything, which lead to some of Castiel’s favorite surprises and worst disappointments. But that’s another matter. 

It remains that one of Castiel’s greatest fears came to pass, and it simply… passed. Dean left them in peace that day in the market, and in the weeks since then he’d stayed away without Castiel’s needing to tell him so. 

That made Castiel careless.

If only he’d held onto the dread he’d first felt when he saw Mary on her horse as she approached their cottage. 

If he’d kept that feeling – that _fear_ – close by, then he wouldn’t have relaxed in the weeks after encountering her son. He would’ve felt more than just mild suspicion when every market day afterward his wares would always find buyers, no matter how poor the pickings from their herb garden. And he would have spent more time taking serious steps towards leaving.

But Castiel didn’t do any of those things, which is why he is where he is now, clutching a letter from Mary and glaring at a guard as he’s allowed admittance into a grand but lonely tent – the only structure in this simple camp.

Mary is inside, as is Dean and a servant, the last of which Mary sends away with a quick gesture. Dean stands up but Castiel ignores him, marching up to the table where Mary’s at and slapping the letter down. 

“I’m not your subject to summon,” Castiel says. “And I don’t want to deal with curious folk wondering why nobility wishes to call on me.”

“I took appropriate precautions,” Mary says calmly. “The Duke thinks we’ve merely returned to advance our friendship with him, and he has been kind enough to let us stay in his park as we hunt our fill. Will you eat with us?”

“No.”

Mary’s eyes move sideways curiously. “You didn’t bring her with you either?”

“Of course not.” Castiel isn’t so foolish as to tell Mary where Claire is, or to reassure her that Claire is in good hands this evening. “State your business and be done with it.”

Mary sighs. Surely she cannot have expected Castiel to be agreeable, and surely if she _wanted_ him to be agreeable, she wouldn’t have invited her son along. Castiel can still feel his silent presence, slightly to the left of Castiel’s line of sight where he’s still standing on his feet just like how Castiel is still standing on his feet. 

“I’m concerned about Claire,” Mary says. “She’ll soon be old enough for placement, and I wanted to know what your plans are.”

“How is that any of your business?” Castiel asks.

“She is Dean’s natural daughter,” Mary says.

“I don’t care if she’s his legitimate daughter,” Castiel snaps. “I am all she has, and that is enough.”

“Is that fair to her?” Mary asks. “Before you say I’m overstepping my bounds, I want you think about her. I want you to consider Claire five years from now, ten years from now. Where do you want her to be by then? Still living the life you have now?”

Castiel didn’t think it possible to be angrier than he was a few moments ago. Of course he has thought of Claire’s future – he’s her father, that’s what he does. Yet Mary sits there calm and regal as though she knows everything he’s done to protect Claire from the worst of the world, as though _Mary_ herself isn’t part of that worst of the world.

“Claire loves to read, I’ve been told,” Mary says.

Castiel gasps. He whips his head round to Dean, who is staring at the floor, abashed. “Did you have us watched?”

“You borrow books from the abbey,” Mary continues blithely. “If the things were different, Claire could have her own personal copies. Start a library, if she wanted.”

“This is an offer to sponsor her, is it?” Castiel says. “You wish to be her benefactor?”

“If things were different between us, I would move slower,” Mary says kindly. “But you won’t have that – and I understand, I truly do. So I hope that you don’t take this as an act of aggression, but as a sign of good faith, and of how seriously I takes this matter.” There is a large parchment on the table, which Mary now unfolds and pushes across so that Castiel may see it.

The title is clear, as is the seal printed at the bottom. Castiel cannot read the full text properly without better lighting, but he can see the few empty spaces in the text, ready to be filled with the appropriate names, dates and places.

“Letters patent,” Castiel says. “You wish to claim my daughter.”

“Dean will,” Mary says. “He is her sire, after all. We need only fill in the details and it can be sent to the king. After that, Claire will be a Campbell, and want for nothing.”

It is then that Castiel understands. He should have seen this coming, and it’s frankly embarrassing that he didn’t, considering the inheritance nonsense that plagued his family.

“You want Claire to be your heir,” Castiel says.

Mary smiles. “Yes.”

Castiel returns with a smile of his own. “Surely you cannot disregard your sons so quickly. You may have had poor luck so far, but they’re young, they can still sire healthy, legitimate children of their own.” He glances over his shoulder. “Oh Dean, surely you wouldn’t be so careless as to forget your family duty?”

Dean’s still staring pointedly at the floor, though his jaw clenches at Castiel’s rebuke.

“That is another matter,” Mary says, a little tersely. “This is for Claire—”

“No, this is for yourself,” Castiel snaps. “If you already had your heirs, you’d offer an allowance for my daughter and leave it at that.”

“That… has some truth,” Mary says, pained. “But you know as well as we do how issues of succession can threaten a whole realm. I have strong sons, but they have hungry cousins waiting in the wings for their chance to bite. There is time for other grandchildren, yes, but this would provide safety greatly needed for Winchester, and all our counties surrounding.”

“And if you get other grandchildren, nothing can stop you from disinheriting Claire.” Castiel shakes his head in disbelief. “I’d heard that you’d made enemies powerful enough to curse your family line to be barren, but I thought those were just stories.”

Mary’s eyes flash angrily. “They are.”

“Then tell your sons to _perform,”_ Castiel says. “I know this one obeyed you well enough before.”

“Castiel!” Mary exclaims, jumping to her feet. “That is cruel.”

“He’s right, though,” Dean says quietly. “If anyone has the right to be cruel, it’s Cas.”

“Don’t,” Castiel says tersely, irritated by the familiarity of his name on Dean’s tongue. “You do understand what this is, don’t you, Dean? I’ve already lost everything, yet that’s not enough for you. Now you want to take my child away from me.”

Dean blinks, startled, and then he’s meeting Castiel’s gaze. Perhaps it was penitence that kept his eyes averted, but the desire to defend himself breaks that resolution. “We wouldn’t – no, never, Cas. Wherever Claire goes, you’d go with her, of course. We can create a new household for you, anywhere you want in Winchester, it doesn’t have to – you don’t have to be near me, or my parents, or anyone you don’t want to be.”

“Thought that through, have you?” Castiel says. “So I’m to stay with my daughter, who will be known as your child, which would make me your whore.”

Dean gapes. “What – no, I wouldn’t—”

“Then what was your solution?” Castiel waits. “What? Were you going to marry me?”

“I wouldn’t insult you like that!” Dean exclaims.

“Then don’t insult me _this_ way,” Castiel says. “Both of you.”

Mary is quiet, but there is fight in her yet. Her hands move over the parchment, folding it carefully and returning it to its velvet pouch where it will wait for further use. Bile rises in Castiel’s throat at the realization of how prepared they are for this meeting, and at how quickly they’d drafted that document. Or does Mary of Winchester have such letters patent lying around her library for emergencies? He wouldn’t put it past her.

Mary clears her throat. “You’re aware that I don’t need your permission.” 

Castiel stares at her, nonplussed. “Don’t threaten me, Mary. Your family’s had enough scandal and… what was it you said? Hungry cousins waiting in the wings? They would listen to my grievances, I expect.”

“Mom,” Dean says. “Let’s not do this.”

“Dean…” Mary sighs.

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you I knew about Claire,” Dean says angrily. “This is not how you make things better.”

Castiel supposes he should feel gratified that Dean is even thinking in terms of making things ‘better’, which in a roundabout way acknowledges the wrongs that were done in the past. But Castiel just feels tired, because apparently the world they live in is the same as it always was – lineage and inheritance continue to reign over the desires of the individual. Castiel even understands where Mary is coming from, and the fear she’s trying to keep hidden. It’s never easy to lead a house. 

But that is the limit of Castiel’s sympathy. 

“I’m not agreeing to anything,” Castiel says. “You’ll have to find some other altar to offer your sacrifice.”

“Of course,” Dean says, his voice suddenly closer, which makes Castiel stiffen until he realizes that Dean is moving to escort him out of the tent. Mary makes a noise of protest but Dean just shakes his head fiercely – this is but one verse of a long-playing argument, no doubt.

Castiel lets himself be ushered out, and doesn’t let himself be aware of Dean’s body, near enough that warmth radiates from him in cool evening air when they step outside.

“I didn’t mean for this,” Dean says.

“You don’t mean for a lot of things,” Castiel replies, which has Dean ducking his head.

“I really thought you—” Dean’s voice breaks, his whole face twisted unhappily, “—you would be better served by—”

“Save your breath for your mother,” Castiel says. 

Dean’s responding laugh – low and bitter – sounds like an agreement. Castiel means to stay his course but in this he’s reminded that it wasn’t he alone who’d suffered the machinations of others. Dean had, too, for the sake of his parents, his brother, his fiercely proud extensive Campbell clan that would do anything to protect their independence from the king. The difference between him and Castiel, of course, is that Dean is the good son the way that Castiel couldn’t be.

“You want to help her,” Castiel says. “Claire.”

“Of course, yes,” Dean says.

“Then don’t let her go through what we did.” Castiel nods with satisfaction when Dean’s eyes go wide; he hadn’t thought of it that way. “Let her have something better.”

Castiel knows better than to put hope in these few spoken words, but it may be enough to rattle Mary on her perch. Dean seems to be considering it, at least, and says nothing as Castiel takes his leave of the camp. 

When Castiel’s a safe distance away and sure that no one’s watching him, he breaks into a run.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary insisted that it wasn’t necessary, but this is one of those times when Dean is glad to have submitted to his instincts. He’s hungry, tired, and still wearing yesterday’s clothing, but it was worth it arrive at the cottage while Castiel and Claire are there.

Not that Castiel is pleased to see him when he opens the door.

“Wait,” Dean says, “please, here.” He thrusts his hand forward, the rustle of parchment absurdly loud in the early morning quiet of the park.

Castiel is wary, but accepts and unfolds the offering. “This is the patent.”

“Yes,” Dean says. “It’s for you. Mary’s promised not to pursue it.”

“She could get another one.”

“It would raise questions she’d rather not answer,” Dean says. “But, yes, you’re right, she could. I only have her word that she won’t press the matter with… She won’t press the matter.”

Dean knows better than to say Claire’s name aloud, when the lady in question is standing behind Castiel, not at all ashamed as she listens in. It’s early enough that they must have just risen, though they’re both awake and alert. Claire tilts her head, and Dean wonders if she remembers him from the market.

“How?” Castiel asks.

“I told her it was my matter to resolve,” Dean says. “She and John have done their part by bearing Sam and myself. What comes after is… well, it should be up to me.”

“I haven’t known your mother to let things go so easily.”

“Ah.” Dean clears his throat. “I suggested a deadline, some three months from now. If I can’t resolve the matter by then, she may raise it once more. But you’ll be… I think you’ll be safe by then.” Wherever Castiel and Claire decide to go next. 

It’s difficult enough to see Castiel’s face clearly in the poor morning light, and the beard doesn’t help. Dean wonders if that’s another reason why Castiel grew it out, covering himself with another layer of impenetrability as he makes his way through the world as the determined guardian of a child. As it is, Dean has little idea of what Castiel is thinking, if he believes anything Dean’s saying at all, if he can even bear the sight of Dean’s continued existence.

“Father?” Claire says.

Castiel sighs. “Yes?”

“Is that the man’s horse?” Claire steps forward now, emboldened. “May I see it up close?”

“Oh.” Dean looks over his shoulder. “Yes, that’s my horse, you can pet her if you want to.”

Castiel’s reluctance is clear, but he’s apparently loathe to deny his daughter this and pushes the door wide open. Dean steals a quick glance at the interior, confirming his suspicion that Castiel is preparing to flee, which is the smart thing to do when faced with a force like Mary Campbell.

“Hold her,” Castiel says. 

Dean fumbles until he realizes that Castiel’s referring to the horse, not Claire. Only Castiel gets to carry Claire, while Dean gets to collect his horse’s reins, tugging her gently towards the cottage’s fence. 

“Her name is Styx,” Dean says. “She’s a little tired, but she enjoys a morning stroll.”

“I do, too,” Claire says. She’s too old to be carried like a babe but Castiel does it without complaint, holding his daughter still as she strokes her hand down Styx’s forehead the way that Dean shows her. “You must be very rich, to have a horse like her.”

“Oh.” Dean’s eyes dart to Castiel, who is nonplussed. “I am somewhat wealthy, yes.”

“Are you here to buy something?” Claire asks.

Castiel rolls his eyes to the heavens. “Claire.”

“It’s far too early,” Claire points out.

“Claire.”

“Does he want to buy the cottage?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Castiel says. “Do you want to buy the cottage?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dean says.

“We’re going inside now.” Castiel shakes his head, clearly irritated. “You, too, Dean. Tie your horse and follow.”

The order pins Dean to the spot for a handful of seconds, during which he can only watch in bewilderment as Castiel marches off with his daughter. A shake of the head clears that confusion, and then Dean’s doing as he’s told, settling Styx and then damn near running into the cottage before the invitation can be rescinded.

Inside, Claire is back down on the floor, and running around as she fetches things to the central table. This is evidently a familiar routine, and Dean doesn’t have the wherewithal to care that he’s intruding in on it, for he’s too busy taking in every detail – from the way Castiel effortlessly navigates around his daughter’s smaller form, to the way Claire holds out a cup in either hand for the water that Castiel pours from a pitcher.

Claire turns and offers one cup to Dean. “For you, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dean says.

“You may rest as well,” Claire says, showing him to a chair. 

Dean sits, and watches as Claire carefully places a piece of cheese – cut by Cas – onto a piece of bread for him. Refusal to accept is, of course, unthinkable. Dean is so enamored of this that it takes him a moment to remember that Castiel is still here, and that he’s standing on the far side of the room, a hand partially covering his face.

“Oh, I should go,” Dean says, starting to stand.

“That’s rude,” Claire says, so firmly that Dean immediately sits back down. “Isn’t it, father?”

“Claire,” Castiel says. “I’d like you to… I know you enjoy callers, but this is… Can you just be still a moment?” 

Claire immediately stops moving, though it is curiosity and not fear that has her obeying. “Yes?”

Dean may no longer be learned in all things Castiel but it’s clearly distress that has him standing there, brow furrowed and eyes unerringly intense as they’re focused on his daughter. Claire’s elation at having an early morning visitor slowly turns into worry, her young face a mirror of her father’s.

At least Dean has the cheese and bread to occupy himself. He eats it now, but barely registers the taste and texture.

“This…” Castiel has to force the words out. “This is Dean of Winchester. He is your sire.”

Dean stiffens. He can only stare, his mouth full of food, as Claire slowly turns to look at him. Dean’s manners have apparently failed him today, because the only response his can muster is a foolish smile and a small wave. 

Claire takes some time to ruminate on this, and is slow in her consideration of Dean. She’s at least kind enough not to be openly disappointed with what she sees. “Why haven’t you come before?”

“He didn’t know about you,” Castiel says. “I never told him when I was carrying you.”

Claire turns her accusing stare to her father. “Why?”

“We were betrothed to other people.”

Dean jumps in surprise; he would’ve started their story at the beginning, not at the end. But that’s what _Dean_ would do, and this moment isn’t about him. This moment is about Castiel and Claire, who are watching each other.

This is certainly not how Dean imagined this morning’s encounter would go, and through the thundering in his heart he wonders if Castiel’s been wanting to tell Claire this for some time. Surely the girl would’ve wondered about her sire – who he was, if he still lived, if he cared about her at all. Considering what happened between them, Dean would’ve expected Castiel to make some fiction to satisfy her, but apparently that isn’t the case.

Then Castiel inhales sharply, and hurries forward. “No, no, that was – no, I’m sorry, Claire, I’m sorry.”

Dean isn’t sure what’s happening until Castiel is kneeling on the floor and wrapping Claire in his arms. Castiel’s hands are firm where they tuck his daughter against him, and then Dean hears it: soft, controlled sobbing, the kind that the crier doesn’t want others to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, rocking his daughter gently. “Claire, please listen to me. There was no evil in your birth. Your sire and I were in love – we were very much in love when we had you.”

“No,” Claire chokes out, her voice small. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.” Castiel strokes a hand down the back of Claire’s head. “I wouldn’t lie about this. I just worded it wrong – it wasn’t an affair that wrought you. We were in love, and we were pledged to each other willingly and happily. If our hopes played out the way we wanted them to, we would’ve been married by the time you were born.”

Dean shouldn’t be here, listening in to this. But he is here, and he is a fiend for being grateful for it, because he had never imagined in his wildest dreams that Castiel could speak so kindly about the time when they were together. It’s just for his daughter’s sake, Dean knows, but the heart doesn’t care about technicalities.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Tell her.”

“It’s true,” Dean manages. “I’d promised myself to your father, and he to me. It was all agreed upon.”

 _Agreed upon._ That makes it sound so formal and proper, as though the proposal hadn’t been made while they were alone in one of the many Campbell hunting lodges, Dean shaking as he spoke and Castiel laughing at him for being so uncertain of his response.

Dean was so nervous at the time that he no longer recalls the exact words he’d used. But he definitely remembers how after they’d carnally celebrated the betrothal – as was their _right_ , no church can deny them that – Dean had asked, “Was that to your satisfaction?” To which Castiel had rolled over, sated and smiling, and replied, “Very much so, my lord.”

That easy _my lord_ had filled Dean’s young mind with such possibilities. They’d been so assured then, of the each other, and of their place in the world.

Dean certainly could not have imagined then that he would now be in a cottage such as this, helpless to do more than listen as Castiel comforts their daughter by himself.

Claire is still crying, but she gathers herself enough to pull back from Castiel and ask, “Then why? If you were in love, why?”

“There was…” Castiel stops, shakes his head, and tries again. “Our families initially agreed to the match, but later they changed their minds. There were some disagreements when Michael claimed his kingship, and Dean’s family took a stance different from my family’s. So a match between us was no longer possible.”

Claire frowns. “They separated you.”

Castiel’s eyes flicker briefly to Dean’s. “They made it difficult for us to be together, yes. And they each arranged new matches for us. But see, I was already carrying you, so you saved me, Claire. I didn’t have to get married to someone I didn’t want, because of you.”

Claire makes an angry sound and twists in Castiel’s hold, but he stays with her, holding her until she has her fill of crying and settles. There is worry in Castiel’s eyes, but there is also calm there. Dean wonders how many days and nights Castiel has held their child this way, soothing her tears and bearing her anger. Victor and Charlie used to say that Castiel’s impatience with others was his worst vice, but Dean always knew that that would not get in the way of his becoming an excellent father. 

Castiel lifts his eyes, meeting Dean’s. Again there is the cold awareness of his being an interloper, but Castiel inclines his head to the pitcher of water. Dean gets up, quickly figuring out that Castiel wants some water poured onto his hand. Carefully and calmly, Castiel leans back and runs a cool, damp hand over Claire’s face, his thumb lingering on her nose when she sniffles wetly.

“I love you, Claire,” Castiel says. Claire bobs her head. “Would you like to wash up?”

Dean can only stand there awkwardly while Castiel sets Claire down and fixes her hair. Claire allows Castiel’s ministrations for a few seconds and then she’s twisting away, chin up and eyes slightly puffy as she marches past Dean for the small bucket and then traipsing out of the cottage.

“She’s getting more water,” Castiel explains. “But it’s more to have some privacy to collect herself.” 

Dean nods, waiting until Castiel stands up, grimacing when his knees protest. “Uh, I noticed that you didn’t tell her everything.”

Castiel shrugs. “It doesn’t seem right to plant hate in a child’s heart.”

“That’s my job, then?”

“That’s up to you.” Castiel levels Dean with a solemn look. “Lies and half-truths are the currency of the powerful – we both know that well enough. But when I had Claire I swore that I would never lie to her. She knows enough of my family, but I’ve neglected to speak of you because that’s the only time I want to lie, so to avoid hurt. But if you want to tell her, you may do so.”

“You’d rather I hurt her instead of you?” Dean asks.

“I was talking about me,” Castiel says. “ _I_ don’t want to hurt.”

“Oh.” Dean has to swallow back the automatic apology in his throat, for that isn’t what Castiel wants to hear right now, or perhaps ever at all. That is Castiel’s right, of course, and Dean will respect that. “I—are you allowing me to come back? To see her again?”

“I know what it’s like to be denied answers,” Castiel says, “so I won’t do that to Claire. If she wants to see you again, you may call on us. But only until we leave this place. I’m not staying long enough for your mother to ambush us again.”

“Of course, yes,” Dean says. “But I can… You should use me, Cas. I have money, I have connections, so you should make use of that, for Claire. If you don’t want her to be placed in a noble household that’s fine, but you must have some other direction that I can help you with. It’s not charity.”

“I have no problem with charity,” Castiel says flatly. “It’s what you want in return that worries me.”

“I want Claire to have a decent future,” Dean says. “That’s all.”

“I’ll think about it.” Castiel’s scowl eases up when Claire returns, her face clean. He starts to approach her but she weaves past him, eyes averted as she fetches more bread and cheese for herself. 

“Does he have to leave soon?” Claire asks, her gaze fixated on her food. 

“Uh,” Dean says. “Not very soon, but I won’t be expected anywhere for at least a few hours.”

Castiel briefly closes his eyes, perhaps in offering a silent prayer as he resigns to this turn of events. He gestures at Dean, urging him to bring his chair up to the table. Dean tries not to appear too eager when he does.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel knows the dangers of what he is doing. He isn’t so proud as to believe that the follies of his youth mean he’ll never make the same mistakes again.

Yes, he notices how the years have been kind to Dean of Winchester. Despite the wars he’s been in and the treasures he must have seen, he is nothing but gentle and enthralled with Claire. Every question she asks requires thoughtful consideration, and everything she says is of utmost importance.

With the invitation wide open, Dean returns to the cottage repeatedly over the next few weeks. He doesn’t stay for long – a few minutes at the shortest, a few hours at the most – but every time could be the last time, and Castiel is always surprised when it turns out not to be. He cannot imagine what excuses Dean must giving to his parents, or to his other responsibilities elsewhere in the realm, but that isn’t Castiel’s problem.

It’s only Claire that matters. Castiel’s allowing these visits for her sake, and Dean knows this as well. Castiel doesn’t regret finding his own way in the world to care for her, but he still bears guilt at his previous hiding of her heritage from her. Claire has so little as it is, and Castiel’s duty is to fix all he is worldly capable of. That includes letting her have her fill of her sire’s company as long as it is available; soon enough Dean will return to his life, or Claire will lose interest, or Castiel will complete his plans in leaving Crowley’s dominion for a new place to settle.

It is in acknowledgement of how precious time is that whenever Dean comes, he doesn’t speak to Castiel much, and the reverse is true. Dean’s focus is entirely on his daughter, whether in bringing her presents of food or plants, or walking with her in the park, or accompanying her in performing chores around the cottage.

There are indeed dangers in this, but Castiel knows it is the correct choice whenever he sees Claire smile or laugh with her sire. Claire is much taken with Dean, and why shouldn’t she be? He is as charming as ever he was – or at least, Castiel has the impression that he is, from the few glimpses he’s had of seeing them together.

The pang of bitterness in Castiel’s heart is a decent price to pay for such occasions, and it wouldn’t be the first time that Castiel’s had to eschew his comfort for the sake of his daughter’s. That bitterness says: see what an excellent sire Dean could have been. See what kind of family life Claire might have had, if _some_ had the strength to defend it. See the kind of reactions this man – who’s only known Claire a few weeks – is able to coax out of her when Castiel has such difficulty doing the same. The first time Castiel heard Claire’s tinkling laughter through the cottage window – at something Dean said, no doubt – he’d gone still with shock.

Claire has so many needs. Castiel tries his best but he knows he falls short often, missing the things that Claire pretends she can do without.

It makes Castiel think back of the time he and Dean lived in Michael’s household, before the crown prince ascended to the throne. Castiel accepted that placement for the sake of learning, but Dean brought camaraderie and adventure and mischief. Castiel could teach, but Dean ushered _experiences_. Everyone loved Dean – Victor, Charlie and Benny most of all, but he gained even the respect of Michael, Hester and Uriel with his courtly charm and knightly strength. It’s easy to love one who gives love so freely.

Castiel has wondered more than once why it is he that took Dean’s attention, for Michael’s household was filled with so many beautiful and talented people. Castiel wondered less about this when he was in Dean’s arms, because he’d decided that Dean was wiser in matters of the heart and it was best to leave that to him. Obviously that trust was misplaced, and Dean’s love is conditional, but that didn’t make it not real.

Claire should have her fill of that love as well, as long as it is available to her.

+

It is near a month since Dean’s visits became regular, and something is not right. Castiel is preparing the next batch of loaves to bring the communal oven, and in standing near the window he sees Claire run alone along his line of sight.

It is a condition of Dean’s visits that he be with Claire always, for her safety. Castiel peers out the window, seeking any sign of Dean, but he doesn’t come running after her. So it is due to a happenstance glance that Castiel steps out of the cottage, just as Claire is running back in the other direction.

Claire is cross – Castiel can see that immediately. That’s unusual in itself, for Dean has so far been nothing but agreeable to her. Concern has Castiel walking quickly and silently after Claire’s route through the trees and undergrowth, until Castiel sees Claire herself, marching straight for where Dean is sitting on a log.

At first Castiel thinks that Claire merely went away to fetch something, but then she marches right up to Dean and smacks him, her palm solid against the side of his face. The sound echoes through the trees, and it is shocking enough that Castiel just barely remembers to duck behind a tree, hiding his presence.

“Are you sorry?” Claire says. Her voice is low and shaky, the way it always goes when she’s trying not to cry. It is such a change from the loud, demanding way she usually talks to Dean. “Are you _sorry_ , sir?”

“I am,” Dean replies, barely audible. “I’ve been sorry every day of my life.”

“You must go to confession.”

“This is confession,” Dean says. “I’m confessing to you.”

“Then…” Claire pauses. “Do I give you your penance?”

“You can. I’ll do anything, Claire.”

Castiel dares a peek around the tree, just in time to see Claire spin in an angry circle, feet almost stomping. It is the closest Castiel’s seen her make a tantrum in years. “I don’t _understand_ ,” Claire says. “If you loved Father then why did you leave him?”

Castiel isn’t surprised to hear Dean’s faint answer: “I thought he would be better off without me.”

“But you needn’t be so cruel,” Claire says. “Now I understand why Father is always so careful to tell me where is all the time. He never ever leaves me anywhere without making sure I know where he’s going, and where to find him again.”

Dean hangs his head. Castiel cannot see his face, and thus can only imagine his expression.

“That is _wicked_ , sir,” Claire says. “How long did he wait for you at that meeting place?”

Castiel can’t hear the answer, but assuming Dean’s speaking the truth, he is saying: ten days. Ten long days alone in that tavern’s rented room, waiting for a man that made a promise to whisk him away in pursuit of the marriage their families no longer approved of. Castiel’s resources could only take him so far in escaping his family’s estate; Dean was to take him the rest of the way, out of the county and into lands beyond the direct control of the royal house.

For the first few days of waiting Castiel was alight with excitement, but soon enough there followed worry of Dean’s non-arrival. Perhaps he had been waylaid, or put under house arrest, or had to take detours to avoid being captured. Ten days isn’t a long time considering it took their clandestine plan weeks to execute, and it certainly didn’t matter that it was Zachariah who ended up fetching Castiel from his hiding place (“ _He’s not coming, Castiel_ ”). It took more than those ten days of being alone in a room for Castiel to fully see the turn their fates had taken.

It took much longer than that – weeks, months, to years, before Castiel understood that Dean wasn’t coming for him.

So Dean may say _ten days_ to Claire now, and Claire may hit Dean’s shoulder with a fist, but that has yet to acknowledge the many letters Castiel sent to Winchester only to be returned, followed by the unassailable news of Dean’s new engagement.

Castiel thinks that he should be pleased at Claire’s response now. He cannot count on anyone to defend him but her, and she is doing a mighty fine job. Dean is trying to be silent but Castiel can hear his faint sounds of distress.

“Why do you tell me this?” Claire asks.

“Because no one else thinks what I did was a grievous wrong,” Dean says. “No one in the world, except you and your father. Circumstance, politics, clannish rights – they’re just excuses. It is a wrong, and I _need_ it to be seen as a wrong.”

“It is.” Claire sniffs loudly, and then sits down on the log next to Dean. “I’m upset.”

Dean murmurs something inaudible in reply, and Claire bobs her head rapidly. Castiel strains to hear what they say next but with their heads closer it’s difficult to make out anything except the odd word. Eventually Castiel gives up and returns to the cottage, disappointed that he feels… the same.

He thought there would be something _more_ to hearing Dean acknowledge those things out loud, and to his daughter no less. A satisfied righteousness perhaps, to fill up all the places inside Castiel that’s been festering with anger all these years. Or at least some vicious relief that Dean has enough of heart left to sound upset in confessing his sins.

Castiel doesn’t feel any of that. He doesn’t even feel numb, which would at least be something different. He is still himself: Castiel, father of Claire, park keeper and gardener and occasional midwife. If there are great scales of justice in the ether of universe, Castiel does not feel them move.

Once, he and Dean were two young spirits hoping to make a life for themselves together, but could not due to the circumstances of their families. Theirs is not the first story to play out this way, and it will certainly not be the last. It is indeed so common that the monks at the monastery where Castiel gave birth tried to comfort him with tales similar to his; it was meant to be a comfort, to show that Castiel wasn’t alone and that there is no predicting the wheel of fortune.

The true comfort is Claire, though.

Once inside the cottage and back at his bread board, Castiel closes his eyes and thinks back to the first time he held his daughter. It had been folly to count on Dean, but not folly to love him, because it was with his assistance that Castiel has Claire, the joy to defeat all sorrows. It is also due to her existence that Castiel is free from the machinations of his family, and Castiel will never be sorry for that.

Never.

It is a while yet before Dean and Claire return to the cottage. When they do, Claire comes in first to announce her arrival, while Dean stays back beyond the doorway. Claire’s face is clean and her spirit jovial, so the only indication of the weighty conversation she had with her sire is the way Claire pointedly glances over her shoulder at Dean.

Castiel keeps his expression placid as Dean steps into the cottage. He is the image of a penitent man, hands in front of him and eyes cast down, though Castiel feels no pleasure at it.

“Thank you, Cas – Castiel,” Dean says, quickly amending himself. “For letting me see your daughter.”

Castiel nods. “It is as Claire wishes.”

“But it is more than I deserve,” Dean says.

“Stop,” Castiel says. “What’s past is past, and you are here for her sake, that is all.”

Dean’s face twists; he knows that it’s not as simple as that, but Castiel is truly not in the mood for whatever closure he hopes to achieve. Castiel shakes his head at Claire, who seems confused but accepts this with a nod.

“You may go on your way, if there’s nothing else,” Castiel says.

“Uh, yes,” Dean says. “I shall. I—yes. Good day, milady.”

“Sir,” Claire says, curtsying.

She watches Dean leave, and once the sounds of Dean’s horse have faded in the distance, she turns to Castiel and wraps her arms around his legs. Castiel puts a hand on the top of her head, and she squeezes him tight.

“I love you,” Claire declares.

“Thank you, Claire,” Castiel replies. “I will always be thankful for that.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean may not be a scholar, but he’s smart enough to know that every visit to Claire (and Castiel) is a blessing, and like all blessings, it is to be appreciated for as long as it’s within reach.

So it is that when the day finally comes when Dean arrives to an empty cottage, he isn’t angry.

He knows at a glance that the cottage isn’t merely devoid of its current inhabitants. He is calm when he dismounts his horse and enters the building, and he merely nods when he notes the lack of personal effects, and the tidying up of furniture for future tenants. The air cannot be stale so quickly, but it tastes so in his lungs.

There is an ache in his stomach, but there’s also acceptance. Castiel and Claire may be gone, but they left Dean far richer than how they found him. Dean has knowledge of Castiel’s health, of Claire’s existence, and of the immeasurable sweetness of Claire’s smile.

Dean may not be a religious man either, but he knows that any place can be a holy if imbued with certain memories. This cottage feels like a shrine, and perhaps it’s one in tribute to scattered families. So strong is this feeling, and Dean’s desire for a form of closure, that he kneels in the center of the cottage and prays for Claire and Castiel. May they be safe, and may they be happy. Dean can offer this for them, even if nothing else for the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

Providence has other plans.

Dean sends to John and Mary that he’s returning to Winchester, but in order to actually do that, protocol demands that he first take leave of Crowley before his departure. Dean’s stay in his realm has been under the pretense that he’s making study of the Duke’s governance system by talking to his people; for the most part, this is even almost true.

So Dean returns to the castle to seek an audience with Crowley, only to be told that the Duke is gone.

“Gone?” Dean asks. “He was just here yesterday.”

“There was news of a good hunt,” the squire says. “I’m sure he’ll return soon, his hunting parties never last more than a few days. Oh, you must be tired from exploring the shires, Your Lordship. Please come in, the Duke’s hospitality is excellent even in his absence.”

It’s a good thing that Dean’s speaking to a squire instead of Crowley’s secretary, or God forbid, the master of his household. Squires are young, and most of them not yet learned enough to lie convincingly to one who lies and is lied to on a regular basis. Dean sees the boy’s eagerness to be believed, as well as his eagerness in getting Dean past the gate into the keep. Dean also sees that the knights guarding the castle are fewer than before, though the handful that remain are Crowley’s strongest champions. Crowley shouldn’t need so many knights if he’s merely going hunting in his park.

Dean takes a quick glance around and, upon making sure that the only ones watching won’t be able to stop him, grabs the squire by his collar and pulls him past the gate and out into the square. A handful of steps bring him close enough to a set of stables, and Dean pushes the boy towards the troughs, ignoring his dismayed cries.

“Gone, is he?” Dean says, while the squire shakes under his grip. “If your master is moving against the House of Campbell, he will pay with more than just his dukedom.”

“No, no, Your Lordship!” the squire says frantically. “I swear upon God and St. Abaddon, he’s not on campaign. The Duke is a truthful man, and loyal to the Campbell alliance!”

Dean snorts. “Then what is he really doing? It’s not a hunt that would take him. _Tell me_.”

“It’s truly nothing,” the squire says, shaking his head. “He’s just – he’s just fetching a runaway tenant.”

Dean blinks. “A tenant?”

“One of the park keepers, fled his station without leave. The Duke is merely pursuing justice, as the righteous Lord that he is.”

“In person, instead of sending one of his minions,” Dean says flatly, though his heart is hammering wildly beneath his ribs. “That must be a precious park keeper indeed.”

 

* * *

 

This, Dean knows how to do. Tracking a party of thirty (by Dean’s estimations) is a familiar enough task that Dean can spare some energy to berating himself all over again for his sheer fucking stupidity.

The park keeper the squire spoke of must be Castiel. It might not be, but Dean cannot take that chance, not when he’s taken too many similar chances for the sake of selfishness.

Dean and Mary have been careful to guard their interest in Castiel and Claire, and had assumed that Crowley’s been much preoccupied with preparations for the new crusade, but perfect secrecy is never assured. There could’ve been hidden eyes no matter how careful there were, and Dean did Claire and Castiel no favors by being so persistent with his visits. What does Crowley know, and what does Crowley _think_ he know?

These thoughts persist as Dean rides as hard and quickly as Styx allows him to. (He should’ve ridden this hard and this quickly years ago to take the man who should’ve been his husband.) The trail is warm, and then hot – a party of thirty must by necessity travel slower than a single man, and so it is that Dean finds them in approach of the town of Erie.

Their standards are being borne high, so Dean sees them from a distance. There are Crowley’s familiar banners of red and black, and marked by the fearsome hunting hound with its jaws wide open. This isn’t a subtle mission, for sure.

Stealth has Dean slipping past them, Styx strong enough for one last sprint for the town gates. The gate keepers only nod at him as he enters, and he passes inconspicuous through the thick of the town’s normal traffic.

Erie is a small town, hardly notable. Castiel would be taking a chance by coming here instead of one of the larger towns, for there is less likelihood of getting passage to other places of interest. But perhaps he’d thought that risk worth it, in order to hide his tracks. Castiel’s certainly had enough experience moving from place to place, as Claire has told him.

There isn’t much time before Crowley arrives, but where to start? It isn’t a large town but there are still a choice of places to search – taverns, shops, trading posts, and so on. Dean ignores the press of time and starts calmly, first by settling Styx in a stable, and then going to the town square to observe the prospects.

Castiel is with a child, and he would never leave her alone. Would that make a visit to the tavern more or less likely? Or would he go to the common oven? Or one of the shops?

Dean turns sharply when his ear catches the tolling of a bell. The town church. Yes.

Erie’s church is a modest building, though its spire makes it easy enough to find in this modest town. Dean bows as he enters the doorway and almost runs right into a devotee coming in the opposite direction – the reason being because, at the far end of the room, are Castiel and Claire. They’re dressed in travel cloaks and Castiel is deep in conversation with a monk, but Dean would know their forms anywhere.

It’s Claire who sees him first. Her face lights up, so openly that Dean’s breath catches. More startling is the way she breaks into a run, hands in her skirt as she rushes down the aisle and right at Dean’s legs, catching his knees with her arms.

“You’re here!” Claire says.

Dean never thought he’d say this in his lifetime, but: “Hush, we’re in a church.”

Claire nods, though her smile is unrepentant. “I’m glad, though. Father didn’t want to—”

“What is this?” Castiel is marching towards them, his face a dark storm. “What are you—”

“Your master is approaching,” Dean says, voice pitched as low as he is able to. When Castiel starts in surprise, Dean adds, “I heard that he’d left his castle to fetch a runaway park keeper, and if that’s you, you mustn’t be here when he arrives. He’s brought his knights with him.”

The wrath in Castiel’s face isn’t abated, but he nods. “Right. Claire—”

“Come,” Claire insists, hands reaching upward. “Please, sir.”

Dean lifts her into his arms – there is pleasure in this, but also functionality, because Castiel is carrying their things. “Do you have means to leave immediately?”

Castiel hesitates. “No.”

Dean nods. “Styx is tired, but I should be able to get another horse for both of you. Would you like me to do that?”

Castiel looks at Claire, then back at Dean. “All right.”

Dean leads the way back to the stables, Castiel beside him. Claire’s arms are sure around Dean’s neck, her head resting confidently on Dean’s shoulder. With her face so close to Dean’s, she talks quietly, telling him that she’s sorry that she didn’t say goodbye, to which Dean replies that he doesn’t mind.

“It’s impolite to disappear without taking leave,” Claire tells him pointedly. Then she giggles, amused at her own cleverness.

“I hear the lesson, my lady,” Dean says. “It is a good lesson.”

“You reckon so, sir?” Claire squeaks when Dean bounces her in his arm.

“Dean,” Castiel says.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “We’re almost there. Pick a horse, and then we’ll find the owner.” There are more women and men climbing the tower gate now, so Crowley’s banners must be within view, though it’ll be a while yet before the knights themselves are seen. A man that must be the Erie sheriff is mounting his horse, likely to ride out to meet the Duke. “Be quick.”

Castiel doesn’t need the reminder, and engages the stable master as Dean keeps an eye on the gates.

“Father says you and grandmother have been often calling on the Duke lately,” Claire says.

“Grandmother?” Dean echoes. “Father lets you call Mary that now?”

“No, I just like to,” Claire says. “Father says you’re probably going to marry him.”

“What?” Dean scoffs. “The Duke?”

“He is fertile,” Claire says cautiously, as though taking care to use the specific wording she’d heard. “Has four children already, by previous husbands.”

“Dead husbands,” Dean says. “ _Mysteriously_ dead husbands.”

“You’ll be cleverer than him,” Claire whispers.

“I’m not marrying the Duke, especially not when…” Dean clears his throat and does not look Claire in the eye, “…it’s possible he’s coming to take custody of you or your father.”

“If you agree to marry him, he might let us go,” Claire says.

“You are too calm about this, milady,” Dean says flatly. “And you conjure the strangest ideas.”

“Is it strange, sir?” Claire asks. “Many people marry for expedient reasons.”

Dean draws back and levels Claire with a look. She is so guileless and so pleased with herself that Dean just barely manages to stop from laughing aloud. “That is true, but perhaps I am not one of those who believes in such marriages.”

Castiel returns just then, declaring, “We have our horse. Come.” He has a good eye and excellent skills for bargaining, so Dean doesn’t have to dig too deep into his money pouch to settle the deal. Dean helps tie their belongings and then checks that the saddle is set proper.

“Are you escorting us?” Claire asks.

Before Dean can think of answer, Castiel says – so calmly that it takes Dean a second to understand what has been said: “A family unit might draw less attention. Would it slow us down greatly? You mentioned your horse is tired.”

Castiel’s priority right now is Claire’s safety, just as his priority back at the cottage was whatever Claire needed. Castiel’s personal feelings (and clear loathing for Dean) are less relevant, and Dean admires that in him that as much as he wishes that Castiel didn’t have to keep putting himself second or last to those around him. His family did enough of that, though of course Claire cannot be counted equal to those fiends, for she is doing what none of them did by loving Castiel back as fervently as she is capable of.

“She is, but I’m familiar enough with these parts so we need only get off the roads,” Dean says, after a moment. “Then we can stay hidden easily. If that’s what you wish.”

Castiel leans close and says quietly, “Do you have your sword?”

“Yes, and money. I can keep both of you safe.”

Castiel eyes are fierce. “I hope you will try.”

They are well outside the town gates when they hear the trumpets. Claire, sitting in front of Castiel on their new horse, turns to look back out of curiosity, but they are far enough into the woods that there’s nothing worth seeing other than trees. Dean, who is walking beside them with Styx’s reins in his hands, urges them forward.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. “For warning us.”

Dean looks up at him in surprise. Castiel is staring straight ahead, but he has a hand resting protectively around Claire’s stomach, and Dean guesses he must be thinking about how close they were to possible danger.

“It’s my fault it was necessary at all,” Dean says. “You would still have that cottage if I hadn’t come along.”

“It’s far from the first time we’ve had to move on,” Claire says. “At least this time we have a horse!”

Castiel clenches his jaw and nods.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel can find no fault in Dean’s manners. As an escort he is as gentlemanly and chivalrous as one could hope for. He is patient with their slow travel, constantly checks on their comfort as they make the cautious journey through the woods, and answers every single one of Claire’s questions thoughtfully and thoroughly.

“But why do we go this way, sir?” Claire asks.

“Well,” Dean says, his horse trotting alongside the one that's Castiel and Claire’s, “Crowley’s company may be slow-moving, but he can send riders ahead. It’s best if we remain off the roads for now.”

“What of dinner, then?” Claire asks.

“Claire,” Castiel says. “You know I can hunt.”

“You hunt?” Dean says in surprise. He blinks and averts his eyes. “Sorry.”

“That’s _your_ solution, Father,” Claire says. “I was asking for Dean’s solution.”

“I would probably try to hunt something, yes,” Dean says. “Or I would find someone to trade with.”

“How much money do you have?” Claire asks.

“ _Claire_ ,” Castiel says.

“It’s all right,” Dean says. “I don’t have much, but enough for meals and board for a few days if absolutely necessary, which I believe it won’t be. I’ll have both of you on the river by tomorrow, I promise.”

Castiel tries to focus on the Dean’s apparent desire to have them away and out of danger as quickly as possible. It is a desire that Castiel shares, and Dean has resources that Castiel does not, so it must have been the correct choice to ask Dean for help.

He must focus on that, for here is the challenge in their traveling together: Dean is here, constant and within reach, and he will be so for at least a day’s length. Yes, he is here in service of Claire, and yes, he is necessary, but this situation is a far cry from Dean’s visits to the cottage. When Dean came to see Claire, they spent all their time together by themselves, leaving Castiel at a remove. That arrangement was logical and productive, and Castiel restricted himself to a handful of glimpses to ensure that Claire was being treated well.

Yet now it is by Castiel’s leave that Dean remains by their side. Dean and Claire may not expect Castiel to be polite or friendly, but Castiel has no choice but to be the audience to their interactions – and an audience to Dean’s accommodating, easy charm.

Castiel rather wishes there were some imperfection in Dean’s conduct, though there is none.

“That means you must travel here often,” Claire says. “To know these lands so well.”

“I travel a lot practically everywhere,” Dean says. “I believe I’ve mentioned that before.”

“But that’s on knightly _adventures_ ,” Claire says. “There’s no battling frost folk here.”

Dean flinches, though it is brief and there’s no telling if Claire notices it. Castiel cannot excuse himself from the scene, so he has to listen as Dean says, carefully and cautiously, “It isn’t exciting as it sounds, Claire. Warfare is terrible, no matter the cause, no matter the scale. And I assure you, even woods such as these have seen their share of… activity.”

Claire makes a skeptical sound, so Dean continues, “I believe this area once belonged so a minor Count, before the Duke took it. Crowley, like most powerful people, never stops seeking more power, and claiming territory doesn’t require asking nicely.”

“There are treaties and marriages,” Claire says.

“Which still need to be enforced with strength,” Dean says. “In my experience, it’s the fighting within families that’s the fiercest. It’s why I travel as much as I do, young madam. If I have to fight, I’d rather fight those I have less kinship with.”

“Why fight at all, sir?” Claire asks.

“I’m exceptionally good at it.” Dean declares it as a boast, but Castiel thinks he hears a thread of resignation in there as well, as though it is all Dean is good at or all that Dean has, which are not thoughts Castiel wants to be thinking of. Neither does Castiel want to think of how in their schooling days Dean was always meant for knighthood but had other talents as well, notably in astronomy and songwriting. There was a period where every other day Dean would come upon his group of friends with some new discovery or creation to impress, and impress he did.

Dean adds, “It helps with the family reputation as well, that I am seen all over the realm, doing as much as I do.”

“Could I do something like that, Father?” Claire asks.

“A knighthood is possible,” Castiel says. “Though like all things it will take a great deal of hard work.”

Claire gasps. “I can be a knight?”

“If you wish it,” Castiel says. “I will help you.” Claire isn’t the only one surprised; Dean’s head jerks up and he gapes at Castiel before once again remembering himself and turning away.

Castiel frowns, irritated. Did Dean think that Castiel would deny Claire something simply because it would be following her sire’s footsteps? Castiel is petty, but not _that_ petty, and helping his daughter towards knighthood on her own terms isn’t the same thing as letting her be taken away into the world of nobility that only wants her for her familial connections.

“You don’t need to be a knight to travel and help people,” Dean says. “There are many other things you can do.”

“Hmm,” Claire says.

 

* * *

 

 

That night they sleep in a clearing. There are a few farms nearby but Dean believes it would be best to keep away from settlements, save for the opportunity to get food from them. A small camp is made in the woods and secured as best as they can manage.

Castiel goes off to settle his ablutions, and returns to the sight of Claire and Dean settled on the ground, their travel cloaks laid out beneath. Dean is propped up on an elbow and almost curled around Claire protectively – the pose is a familiar one, for Castiel has done it countless times before. The sight of someone else doing it to his daughter is enough to still Castiel in his tracks.

“…so they rush in to seize the castle,” Dean’s saying, one hand gesturing in the air. “But they find—”

“It’s a _trap_ ,” Claire gasps. “It is, isn’t it?”

“I’m telling this story,” Dean says. “Yes, fine, it’s a trap but they don’t realize it until enter the keep and find that the Baron has fled through secret tunnels. All’s left behind are a handful of her loyal servants, and as soon as the princess himself has entered the keep, they lock the doors and set the tapestries on fire.”

Claire presses her hands to her mouth. “Oh no!”

“The keep’s walls may be stone, but it is mayhem, so she…” Dean stops, finally noticing Castiel’s presence. “Ah. We’ll continue later.”

Claire frowns, but she nods. “You must.”

“Prayers now, Claire,” Castiel says. He takes his station next to Claire as she rises to her knees, hands clasped together. Dean starts but follows suit, head bowed politely.

“Thank you, Lord, for this day and all the blessings in it,” Claire says. “Now we rest, and by Your leave may we wake in good blessings in the morn. Amen.”

After they echo the amen, Dean clears his throat and says, “That’s an unusual prayer, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Father says the Lord understands intent just as much as words,” Claire says. “Ceremony is nice, but belief is nicer.”

“That is efficient,” Dean says. “And controversial in some circles, I would say.”

“I’m not going to be a monk,” Claire says indignantly.

“I thought you wanted to travel the world and help people,” Dean says. “A monk could definitely accomplish that.”

Claire gasps loudly, so affronted by the suggestion that Castiel can’t help but help. It’s a soft laugh, no more a huff of breath, but Dean’s eyes are suddenly on him, wide and stunned. There is no cause for such a reaction as though Castiel has performed a miracle, and it is only in thinking of it that Castiel realizes that until this moment he hasn’t let himself smile in Dean’s presence since their seeing each other again. Dean is amazed by this, so simple of things.

Castiel turns away as his face heats up, mortified to have allowed such familiarity. He busies himself patting his cloak and lying down, his back to the pair as they resume talking.

“Was that rude of me?” Claire asks.

“No, it’s um…” There’s a sound of rustling, as though Dean is fidgeting. “It’s just, your father wanted to go into the church when I knew him, so it… It’s funny that you would reject such a career that way.”

“Father.” Claire touches Castiel’s arm. “If that was hurtful, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not hurtful,” Castiel says. He doesn’t add that Dean’s said far more callous things in the past about Castiel’s then-desire to join the church. Castiel hadn’t minded at the time, for they were spoken out of desire to keep Castiel for himself, but like practically all memories of their youth, it is tainted by events that occurred in between.

Castiel wonders if Dean’s recalling the things he said the way that Castiel is right now; if Dean remembers much of their youthful folly at all. Dean’s seen so much and done so much since then, after all. It is only Dean’s regret at not knowing his daughter that he has persisted so strongly in keeping their company these past weeks, Castiel knows.

“Dean,” Castiel says, back still turned to them.

“Yes?” Dean says.

“Wake me when it’s my time to take watch.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”


	8. Chapter 8

As soon as he sees father and daughter safely off on a boat, Dean does what he’s always done in situations such as this: he finds a tavern.

A part of him insists that it’s cowardly to find refuge in a tankard, but the rest of him is of the opinion that it would’ve been even more cowardly to keep Castiel and Claire by his side, where they would be in far more danger. Castiel’s proven his skill in keeping Claire safe her whole life, after all. Dean contemplates this further as he drinks; while he was busy slaying beasts and running battles and extending family land, Castiel was raising a child all by himself. Who is the hero here, truly?

It’s difficult, but Dean tries to recall how sensible it had felt at the time to let Castiel go. Castiel was smarter than him, more hardworking than him, and had deeper connections to the royal family. He could do anything, pursue anything. He could with a subtle hand guide the entire realm towards peace and prosperity, because Dean had seen Castiel do that more than once within the smaller scale of Michael’s household.

What wisdom was there in pursuing a marriage that would destroy all of that? Would Dean be able to protect him, support him? How far could they flee from their families? And with Dean as the Campbell heir, would he be able to live with himself if his family – already rife with tension – broke out in civil war? Could he do that to his parents?

Today, as Dean sifts through his memories, he realizes how carefully and methodically they’d sieged him – Zachariah, Naomi, his cousins, even his own parents, one after another – with the intention of having him capitulate to what they’d already decided. With everyone insisting that that was the best way, Dean had surrendered. He’d bowed his head and confessed his error, but when Mary gently guided his hand to a pen, he couldn’t write the farewell letter that he should have. Instead, he lost himself in tankards such as this, for they were better companions than thoughts of Castiel waiting for him, faithful and hopeful.

The worst is that Castiel didn’t surrender the way Dean did. Though Castiel’s family caught up with him and subjected him to the same pressures that befell Dean, Castiel still left to forge his own destiny. Dean also thinks that Castiel would’ve done it whether or not he was with child.

Yes, it’s best that Castiel and Claire go far, far away. There’s no telling what Dean’s continued presence would bring upon them otherwise. Dean is fully capable of living off the weeks of new memories he’s made with Claire, along with the past few days of being able to study every facet of Castiel’s face, regardless of it almost permanently being set with a scowl and hidden behind his beard.

A voice near Dean’s elbow startles him out from his meditation.

“Sorry to bother, sir,” a man asks. He’s a common-looking fellow, and a little twitchy in the eyes. “I… I was wondering, if you’ve been here long?”

“Not long enough.” Dean hopes to be off-putting, but the man stays where he is. “Speak quickly.”

“You have a sword. Are you… between service?”

Dean is usually amused at being mistaken for a mercenary, he’s of ill-humor today. “What are you in need of?”

“You would have sharp eyes,” the man says. “Observant. On your way here, did you see a child – a female child – with fair hair? She would be about six years old, in travel clothes.”

Dean doesn’t let his expression change. “There are many children with fair hair. Many of them could be traveling as well.”

The man creeps closer. “There is a reward, sir—”

“Oh, not this again!” the barkeep exclaims. “Ignore him, sir. This one likes making up stories.”

“It’s not a story!” the first man insists. “I’ve seen the reward with my own eyes.”

“You can read now?” the barkeep scoffs.

“I tell you, the Duke has put a reward for the fetching of this girl.”

“A reward only you know about,” the barkeep says. “For one peasant girl when the Duke’s lands have dozens, hundreds.”

“It’s a new order, from the grand keep!” the man says. “And she’s no peasant girl. This one’s the womb kindred of the Campbell heir.”

“A secret heir?” chimes in a woman who’s been listening in. “That makes your story less likely. Sounds like one of the Duke’s ruses, towards some other purpose.”

“That, I’d believe,” the barkeep says. “Though let’s not disparage our beloved Duke, he’s a generous master.”

A dry tittering passes through the crowd around Dean and the now-angry man, who says, “ _ I _ will fetch the reward and then we’ll see who laughs.”

“Who else knows of this?” Dean asks.

“Not many,” the man says. “I’ve traveled faster than most, though there are still those faster than me. If you’ve seen a girl, we can work together—”

Dean shoves the man back and tosses coin to the barkeep for the drink. “Thank you for the valuable information,” Dean says, while the man’s mouth drops in dismay.

Dean runs. He runs out of the tavern and to the stables for his horse, then has Styx run past the docks and alongside the river in following the route taken by the boat Castiel and Claire boarded. If one careless person knows about the bounty, then there will be others far more shrewd on the same hunt.

It does sound like something Crowley would do as well. After being losing them at Erie, the Duke could turn to other means, his money easily extending his reach among the common people. Dean wouldn’t have heard of the bounty either, not with their traveling through the woods and quiet roads until they reached the riverpoint.

Dean rides as hard as Styx allows, and so it is that he’s there in time to see the wet, bedraggled form of Castiel trudge out of the river. A peasant – farmer, possibly – is helping Castiel out of the water and asking if he’s all right. Castiel mumbles an unconvincing affirmative, for his face is ashen, either due to shock or the cold of the water.

Dean dismounts and approaches. “Castiel.”

Castiel looks up. The exhaustion of his body disappears as his head and shoulders snap up, and he marches right for Dean, his blue eyes blazing.

“Did they throw you from the boat?” Dean asks. “Is Claire—”

“Did your mother do this?” Castiel demands. “Did she tell Crowley, so he’d fetch my daughter for her? Tell me!”

“I – I don’t know,” Dean says. “It’s possible, but she promised, I don’t… I swear I don’t know.”

“What value is an oath of  _ yours _ ?” Castiel spits back. “Dean of Winchester is a damned liar.”

Dean reels, his whole body unbalanced as Castiel stalks past him. It’s not the insult that throws Dean so, for it is an insult well-deserved like the many others Castiel’s thrown his and Mary’s way. It’s just Dean hadn’t known that Castiel could speak with such venom and rage, the words striking like a fist to the stomach.

When Dean knew Castiel –  _ Cas _ , back then – he always seemed so in control of his feelings. The emotions were there, of course, but they tended to simmer just beneath the surface, and Dean found sport in coaxing those emotions out into the open. But there is no joy in Dean’s standing here today, watching Castiel sit on the grass with his face in his hands.

No, there is no joy, but there is a relief, of sorts. Dean’s wanted Castiel’s anger, and he’s waited for it since he first saw Castiel again. He couldn’t understand how Castiel could bear to see him at all and not strike him where he stood, and it wasn’t patience nor kindness that stayed his hand. It was something else that now exists in Castiel – something that grew and hardened like stone over this years – but now it splinters.

“I should have run the day I saw you,” Castiel says. “No, I should have run the day I saw your mother.”

“That wouldn’t have deterred her.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “You defend her to me  _ now _ ?”

“We don’t know if she was involved. But if she was…” Dean kneels in front of him, a hand out in supplication. “Tell me what to do.”

“What use are you?” Castiel snaps. 

Dean waits until Castiel’s composed himself, and then says as gently as he can, “Can you tell me who took her? Followers of the Duke, or collectors?”

“Bounty hunters, you mean?” Castiel looks down the river, though the boat is long gone. “Yes, they were collectors. And they knew who she was.” He turns away, eyes damp, and Dean knows he is hoping that knowledge of Claire’s status will keep her safe and treated well. The Duke would sooner pay with the sword if his prize is harmed in any way.

“Castiel,” Dean says. “You’ve been in the Duke’s realm longer, but I’ve seen him work, and I expect he’d want to take custody of Claire quickly. His knights are traveling with him, but they are slow, so he will send word to these bounty collectors to take her to safe place. There is a castle further up the river, where it meets the–”

“I know that castle,” Castiel says. “You suggest getting to her before Crowley does? Your horse is tired and there are two of us. The Duke will be swifter.”

“That is likely, yes, but we don’t know for sure. We could try.” Dean takes a breath. “Castiel, I’m the last person you want here right now, but I _am_ here, and you’re right – this fault is mine. I failed to be your champion once, but I can be Claire’s and set this to right.”

Castiel’s face is stony, but Dean doesn’t turn away from his glare. “Of course you would take her cause,” he says at last. “You love her enough for it.”

Dean’s breath catches, for this curse is more sublime than all the others.

Though Dean has been silent on the matter, many times these past weeks he’d thought: if only Castiel had just  _ told _ him. If Dean had known that Castiel was with child, surely he would have acted better, surely he would have had the strength to do the right thing. But now Dean understands just how much Castiel would have hated receiving that kind of pity. He wouldn’t have wanted Dean to feel obligated to act just because Castiel was to be a father. Castiel would rather it be love that fuelled him.

Dean’s love felt real then, and it certainly feels real now as he gazes up into Castiel’s fierce, merciless, beautiful eyes. But that love wasn’t enough when they were young, because Dean is a flawed creature.

True purpose rushes through Dean veins when he says, “Command me. Castiel, you may command me.”

“Command you? Ah, then I shall: bring my daughter back to me.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate: “I swear I will do all in my power to bring Claire back to you.”

“ _ All _ in your power, Dean?” Castiel challenges. “What if it’s Mary who takes her?”

“All in my power. Mary made a promise, and if it was broken, my loyalty belongs solely to my daughter.” When Castiel is unable to answer, Dean adds, “No matter. I will rescue her. You’ll see.”

“Be still,” Castiel says. “We need to regroup. We need find out where they land, and where they’re keeping her. And we’ll need money. Have you sold off the other horse yet?”

“No, she’s still where I left her.” Dean thinks quickly – he doesn’t have cash, but he can put Tuscon and the fortress of Sioux to a loan reasonably quickly. “I can get more money than the selling price of a horse. How much do you need?”

“Enough to buy a company,” Castiel says.

Dean nods. “For a direct attack on the Duke, or subterfuge?”

Castiel hesitates. Then, despite the doubt clouding his eyes, he says: “Advise me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel knows that Claire’s letter would be safest if secreted away, but he can’t resist the urge to hold said letter open at every free chance he has, so to read its contents again and again. The words are familiar by now, but in each reading Castiel hopes to glean something new – of Claire’s true thoughts, feelings, and fears; if there are other secret messages within that he’s missed.

It is a partial truth that Castiel should be grateful for this letter, for the mistress of Gasten Castle needn’t have offered her young captive the chance to write to her father, let alone hand the letter over to its intended recipient. Castiel’s known too many who would do less. He _should_ be grateful.

He isn’t.

“Castiel, I—” Dean halts in the open entrance of the tent. “Are you busy?”

“No.” Castiel folds the letter and sets it on his lap. “You’ve learned something new?”

“Ah, yes.” Dean sets his hands in front of him, though there is no sword currently with him to complete his pose. “Lady Cecily isn’t one of Crowley’s direct retainers, but she’s holding the castle in stewardship for Baron Jael, who is.”

“So Cecily’s loyalty is to Jael, not Crowley?”

“In effect, yes,” Dean says.

Castiel sets his gaze beyond Dean’s shoulder, through the open entrance to Gasten Castle beyond. It’s a relatively small fortress that was built to defend the fork in the river, but as self-sustaining as any other. Cecily closed the gates when they first approached days ago with their company, though there it will be many months before Gasten need worry about supplies. Castiel and Dean’s only advantage here is that Crowley has yet to come to collect Claire himself.

Castiel’s daughter is still in that castle, still waiting.

“So she can still be swayed,” Castiel says. “By the usual, I presume? Money, duels, or some other promise of prestige or advancement?”

“Or threats,” Dean says.

Castiel nods. “Or threats.”

Technically, Dean and Castiel are besieging Gasten Castle. There has been no combat nor usage of weapons thus far, but those are merely the more glamorous aspects of a siege. The less glamorous aspects involve patience, resilience, and stubbornness.

They have been in camp within sight of Gasten for over a week now, accompanied by the company of mercenaries purchased by Dean’s coin. A week is not yet a long enough period for said company to turn restless, but they will get there eventually. No doubt Cecily’s hoping for that to happen before the people of Gasten turn on her for the closing the gates or, worse yet, decide that their holding of Claire isn’t worth the effort.

Personally, Castiel would have preferred means of trickery to save Claire: sneak into Gasten, bribe the right people, and whisk Claire away like thieves in the night. But that requires time and access in order to learn Gasten and its people – neither of which they have, not with Cecily being forewarned that Claire’s parents would follow her trail.

“The threat of Campbell is not yet strong enough,” Dean says. “Cecily knows – or at least suspects – that I act alone in being your champion. My being here doesn’t guarantee any greater consequences from the rest of my family.”

“Doesn’t it?” Castiel asks. “Isn’t Crowley, lord of land, pursuing good relations with your mother? What of – Dean, would you _sit_. My neck tires of looking at you where you stand.”

Dean hesitates, then comes to join Castiel on the cushions. Dean’s funds have procured them decent enough living arrangements, and Castiel has been given the privacy of the main tent in honor. It’s true that the tent is smaller than Castiel’s previous cottage, and that there is little furniture, and what they _do_ have is aged, but it all still feels absurdly luxurious compared to what Castiel has gotten used to.

“You were saying,” Dean prompts, once he has settled.

“Ah yes,” Castiel says. “What of the messenger you’ve sent?”

“No news yet.” Dean scratches his chin, his fingernails rasping against the bristles there. “Mary may very well still be gathering information as we are.”

He and Dean have talked about Mary already, and of how she may react to Crowley’s actions and their reactions, though to little conclusion. All Dean knows of Mary’s current business with Crowley is that it’s typical of dealings between such lords – trade, territory, and the strengthening of their bloc against common enemies. As far as Dean’s aware there’s little loyalty or true need between them, and Mary would be quick to dispose of the relationship if a better one came along.

“It’s interesting that I don’t yet know what to hope for,” Castiel says. “For her to ignore everything and with her inaction declare that Claire is of no interest to her, or for her to pursue Crowley’s insult but with it her claim on her granddaughter.”

“We could use either,” Dean says.

Castiel eyes him warily. “So sure, are you?”

“I have learned a little,” Dean admits, though he turns away as though to hide his sheepishness. “Everyone – _everyone –_ is powerless somewhere, and the trick of it is to find where that place is.”

Once again Castiel finds himself thinking of how Dean has changed, even as a great many parts of him are recognizable as the boy Castiel once loved.

Just as Castiel knows he ‘should’ be grateful for Cecily’s allowing Claire to write him, he knows that he ‘should’ be grateful for Dean’s being here and taking on Claire’s cause. Dean has declared himself openly to be Claire’s protector, and to be working in Castiel’s name to free her from her captor. Dean has done this without leave from his mother, who no doubt has _opinions_ about him threatening her business.

Castiel doesn’t want to be grateful.

“How of the company?” Castiel says.

“I have ways to keep them busy,” Dean says. “They will be entertained enough by harassing the next boats to pass through. I know you don’t approve but—”

“That is how Gasten is to be forced, yes.” Castiel exhales slowly. “I understand.”

They are silent for a moment, and Castiel looks beyond the opening of the tent, where in the distance a handful of men and women of the hired company are building more tents for other use. Castiel shivers at the thought of open skirmishes – and there will be at least one, he thinks, if only to ensure his and Claire’s final escape.

“Shall I go?” Dean asks. “There’s no other news.”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Dean rises from the cushions, while Castiel looks back at Claire’s letter on his lap. The sound of Dean’s steps fade under the sudden rapid heartbeat in Castiel’s ears as he thinks for the dozenth, hundredth time over of how Claire is now learning the ways of captivity. Her captors may very well be treating her with the due owed to her supposed station, but it is still a locked cage, and Castiel knows locked cages very well.

Castiel’s treacherous mind adds: ah, but the cages that Castiel was in, he at least knew his captors. He’d been held under his parents and an uncle, so he’d known how to deal with them and find his way. Claire is among strangers.

 _Strangers._ Vipers, working for Crowley.

Are Castiel’s teachings enough for Claire to know how to protect herself? There is no way to know save this letter, and it is so insufficient that it makes Castiel’s hands shake.

A touch on Castiel’s shoulder makes him jump. Dean has not gone, but has returned to kneel on the cushions by Castiel and is gazing at him in worry. “She is strong, Castiel.”

A paltry statement.

“She is a _child_ ,” Castiel snaps. “She is all I am for, and I have failed her.”

“Not you,” Dean says calmly. “You have done everything that is right. It is I that have failed her.”

Castiel wants to agree, but the anger will not focus, will not give Castiel the petty relief as it has done for the many years where Dean was a mere phantom of his past. Dean is here in the flesh, and he is – he is _patient_ , and _kind_ , and _sorry,_ and he is the only means of Castiel’s standing tall and beating down Gasten Castle to free his daughter.

“You owe her nothing,” Castiel says. “You cannot be blamed for having no hand in the life of a child you never knew.”

Dean frowns. “But it is by my family’s doing that she is now a prisoner.”

“What point is there in blaming you or your family for anything?” Castiel says. “There is nothing new in any of this – nothing I didn’t foresee. _I_ didn’t take the correct steps to protect my daughter, and that – that is error and stupidity and –”

“By God, Cas, don’t,” Dean says wretchedly. He’s holding a hand out, though it’s frozen in the air between them. Castiel realizes that his face is damp, that there are hot tears streaking his cheeks and Dean was about to wipe them away. But he stopped himself, because he knows that that is not what is done. “I will do everything to get her back for you.”

“You’ve done more than I expected already,” Castiel says bitterly.

“And it’s not enough, I know,” Dean says quickly. “But I—”

“For I thought you would run,” Castiel says. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Of course I was wrong, because it’s only me you run from. You’d stay now and hold the course for your daughter.”

Dean’s mouth works silently for a moment, until at least he gathers enough wits to say, “I didn’t run from you. No, listen – I didn’t run from _you_ , I ran from the destruction I would’ve caused you. I know it makes little distinction in the end but it’s… There it is.”

Castiel scoffs, a hand on his mouth as he tries to will his tears to cease. He has lasted this long since Claire’s capture without a single outburst of emotion, but it seems that there are thresholds. “The worst part of it all, I think, is how I understand exactly what you mean. I hate it, but I understand.”

Dean seems taken aback, unable to respond.

“I have never been far from her side,” Castiel says, looking at the letter on his lap. “All her life, I have been there.”

“And she’s been there for you,” Dean says quietly, as though in revelation. “You were never alone, once you had her.”

“I don’t know what I am without her,” Castiel says flatly. “Isn’t that amusing?”

“Cas,” Dean says urgently, his hand squeezing Castiel’s shoulder. “You are not nothing without Claire, do you understand? You are more than just her father, more than—”

In Castiel’s mind, his memories of Dean have been long overcast with the pungency of Dean’s abandonment. All the sweetness of their courtship, and of Dean’s chivalrous and ardent pursuit – all of it turned sour once Castiel realized how little Dean was willing to give up for their sake. But the memories are still _there_ , of Dean’s gentle eyes, his smile, the way the side of his mouth curls when he’s amused.

Castiel also remembers how it is to kiss Dean. He remembers their first kiss, stolen at night while they were alone in an enclave overlooking Michael’s garden. It was he who kissed Dean first, despite Dean being the one to pursue the courtship. Castiel had a hand on Dean’s chest and leaned up, face tilted so to press their mouths together.

An echo travels across the years when Castiel now does the same, putting a hand on Dean’s chest and leaning in. But the echo is distorted, for where Castiel in the past was gentle, Castiel in the present is not – his hand curls to find a grip in Dean’s tunic, and he presses forwardly harshly in a meet of teeth.

Why does he do it? Because he is mad, probably. He is mad from worry over Claire, from frustration over his own failures, from hatred of the workings of the world that have made Claire _important_ to people who would otherwise never care of her existence. Castiel is also made mad by Dean’s presence, and how it reminds him how lonely he’s been, and how much he wished that it was all a mistake, that Dean would find him one day and make everything right.

Because Castiel, buried deep in his heart of hearts, still wished for it. It was as good a fantasy as any other, and something to hold on to in the agonizing lonely moments he’d had while on the run with his child.

So Castiel kisses him – the sire of his child, his once-sweetheart and once-betrothed.

Then Dean kisses back, for reality is a strange thing indeed.

Castiel is startled at first, at a loss as to why Dean would do such a thing, but then Dean’s lips part and there is the heat of his mouth, and such thoughts disappear like smoke. In their place rise long-buried yearnings of Castiel’s body, which lead him to gasp and welcome Dean’s plundering of his mouth.

He’d remembered all of this, yet he’d still forgotten.

Pleasure moves like liquid through Castiel’s limbs. Castiel’s hands find Dean’s body – solid, strong, wider than he was once was – while Dean’s hands are on Castiel’s face, fingertips running over his temple and damp cheeks.

“Cas.” Dean pulls away just enough to breathe against his lips. “Cas.”

Castiel blinks, and some semblance of lucidity returns. Shame almost follows, but he is then caught by the dark, vicious green of Dean’s eyes, and can only whisper back, “Dean.”

“Would you have me pleasure you?” Dean says. “So for a little while you may… you may…”

Castiel understands what Dean is asking. It isn’t so much that Castiel wants to forget what’s happening with Claire, but he is unraveling. He’s always had Claire to keep him centered and focused – Dean was right in that Castiel needs her as much as she needs him. Now she is gone, and with nothing else to hold onto, Castiel is falling apart in increments.

Also important to the question is Dean’s own lucidity. His eyes are clear, which makes just as clear the honesty of his offer. Castiel hasn’t seen him for years and done nothing but send barbs his way since they’ve returned to each other’s lives, yet Castiel’s lips still tingle from the passion of Dean’s kisses. What to make of that?

Castiel doesn’t want to think. He will take Dean’s offer at face value.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Yes.”

There is still time to change his mind, for Dean has to go and close the tent flap. Castiel stays where he is on the cushions, where he sets Claire’s letter aside carefully and unwinds the ties of his breeches with shaking hands. _Madness_.

When Dean returns, Castiel says, “This is just – I don’t –”

“For comfort, Cas.” Dean’s smile is warm, and despite everything, Castiel trusts it. “Just this once. That is correct?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and then Dean is kissing him again.

A handful of heartbeats later and Castiel is floating, and only vaguely registering his being settled on his back on the cushions. Dean is on top of him, pulling such sensations from his mouth and neck and chest, making Castiel’s nipples ache and his opening clench. These are oft-neglected parts of his body for this particular purpose; so much so that Castiel had thought that any desire for such things were culled from him in the betrayal, and he was grateful for it.

Castiel was wrong. He does want, and he does want Dean, who now runs his hands all over Castiel’s body and makes him sob. Dean’s hands slide under his tunic over skin, thumbs soothing the pebbled nubs of his nipples, and then move further down to release him from his breeches and open him up for the servicing.

It’s only then that Castiel remembers he’d forgotten to specify that he doesn’t want Dean’s penis inside him, but he needn’t have worried. Dean is still fully clothed when he moves down Castiel’s body, and has apparently decided to use his mouth for Castiel’s pleasure.

“This is acceptable?” Dean asks as he settles between Castiel’s legs.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and then Dean’s lips are on his dick. A brush at first, Dean’s hot breath along the shaft making Castiel gasp, and then he’s drawing his tongue languidly across the tender skin. Castiel’s body is on fire, and soon enough his erection is solid enough that it may be sheathed by Dean’s fine mouth. Dean swallows him with expertise.

Elsewhere, Dean’s fingertips brush at Castiel’s opening. When Castiel looks down, Dean – his mouth occupied – inclines his head in question. His eyes are dark and mesmerizing.

Castiel nods, and then sighs with heartfelt relief when those fingers plunge into him, soothing the other ache. It may have been years since they’d done this but Castiel’s body relearns matters soon enough, his channel growing hot and slick around Dean’s fingers. The pleasure loops neatly with Dean’s determined suckling of his cock, twin points of bliss vying for Castiel’s attention and drawing him to further heights.

It is a dance of sorts – Dean’s fingers moving in time with his lips, and Castiel rocking between both. Castiel approaches the cusp, but distantly wonders if the fingers are sufficient. They don’t stretch wide enough, don’t delve in deep enough, and his body’s memory craves other satisfaction. But Dean _moves_ , curling the fingers in such a manner that Castiel gasps in shock, at the same time as the head of his erection knocks the roof of Dean’s mouth.

Castiel spills quick and messy. Dean swallows, and then kisses his stomach through the subsiding. His fingers stay inside Castiel’s body until he stops shivering, after which Dean removes his fingers and then drops one more kiss to the space behind Castiel’s testicles.

It is with shaky arms that Castiel sits up, watching Dean wipes his mouth. Dean’s skin is flushed and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat, which merely serves to enhance the handsomeness of his features. Castiel wonders if he still orgasms the way that he remembers.

Castiel puts a hand between Dean’s legs, and goes still. Dean is soft.

Dean’s head snaps around, his eyes wide. “Cas, wait—”

“Oh,” Castiel says, while horror claws up his body. It is slow to move, seeing as that he’s still in the afterglow of pleasure, but it is there. “Oh, I see.”

“No, Cas, no.” Dean comes in close, voice urgent. “I wanted this.”

“You wanted me to have this,” Castiel says distantly. “Yes.”

“No, I wanted _you_ ,” Dean insists. “I’ve wanted you since – I’ve wanted this with you, Cas, please.”

Castiel supposes that this is a natural extension of their interactions thus far. Dean has been angling himself for punishment under Castiel’s lash, and perhaps he found it fitting that he let Castiel use him this way.

“No, Cas, listen. _Cas_.”

Castiel snaps back to awareness, registering Dean’s face up close, his eyes large and fierce. “What?”

“This was not an evil,” Dean says firmly. “You took nothing from me I wasn’t happy to give. And I was happy – _am_ happy. Cas, you’re so beautiful, so—”

“Yet you find me wanting,” Castiel says. “I don’t entice you.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “You once spoke to Mary and me of a curse on our family line, that it would be barren. Mary raged at you for you struck too close. There is some truth in that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am… deficient.” Dean winces, though his mouth lifts in a brief, false smile. “No arrow to fire, no string to pluck.”

Castiel draws back, stunned. “Are you ill?”

“In every other way, no,” Dean says. “I am virile by all means but this. Very, _very_ few know of it, for it—”

“Affects your family’s hold on power,” Castiel says. “If this branch of the family tree stays dormant, then others may rise to take its place. And your brother…”

“Yes. If my condition is known, Sam will be suspected of suffering the same. He doesn’t _,_ yet there is no proof of that as yet either. If there is any evidence of Mary’s line being unfruitful, there will be an upheaval.”

“Hence why she wants Claire so badly.”

“But I don’t,” Dean says. “Claire is yours, and she is her own.”

In this, Castiel finds a great many answers to questions he hadn’t wanted to think about. Right here is the reason why Dean doesn’t act like an heir to a great house – not _really_ – and why his life is far more itinerant than other knights of similar birth. There is also the matter of how Castiel hadn’t wanted to put stock into the uncomfortable feeling that the streak of confidence he’d known Dean to have as a boy was somewhat absent in man that Dean’s become, but there it is.

“Do you believe me now?” Dean presses. “I wanted this.”

That is another question that Castiel doesn’t want to think about. Dean’s life must have taken him to such places and experiences that Castiel cannot imagine, and surely there is no space left in him for wanting Castiel anymore and in any way. Castiel _must_ be a shameful memory of Dean’s past, forgotten as easily as Dean once let him rot in his parents’ fortress.

Yet Castiel finds himself saying, “I believe you.”

Then Castiel makes the mistake of watching Dean’s face – Dean’s smile is relieved at first, and he holds Castiel’s gaze for a beat before turning away to fetch Castiel’s discarded breeches.

Castiel takes a deep breath and tries to school his features. Dean has shared this knowledge that threatens his family, and he has delivered it with calm acceptance. It is not simply that Castiel now has weaponry to use against Mary, but he also an insight into Dean’s feelings on the matter.

Dean accepts the illness as penance. In his mind, it is a fair atonement for the wrong he made against Castiel, so he embraces it. Add to that everything that Dean has done since he’d met Castiel again – every act, every word, has been a form of atonement as well. Castiel wonders what else Dean has borne over the years that also fulfil this criterion.

In the years of his raising Claire in peace, Castiel’s only ever thought of Dean of Winchester with anger. It is getting increasingly difficult to hold on to that. What satisfaction is there in resenting Dean, when he already resents himself?


	10. Chapter 10

Dean prays as often as is required for a scion of a lordly family. Which is to say that he makes himself available for family and communal prayer, and goes through all the words and motions as is expected of his role. For Dean, belief and prayer are far from being in tandem; prayer is a performance, and most of that which Dean believes in don’t need prayer for their shoring up.

There are, however, times when Dean does pray with honesty. It’s only happened a handful of times in his life, and he can add one more to the count today. This early morning he’s kneeling in his tent, hands clasped and head bowed, his sword laid out before him.

Dean feels calm, like a field before the sowing, or a sea before the voyage.

As a young man, Dean oft dreamed of a scene as this. Him the courtly knight, and Castiel his sweetheart ready with a favor to be tied to Dean’s lance. There is no lance today, but Dean does have a favor of sorts: in the kisses he still feels on his mouth.

Further to that, Dean has now told Castiel everything worth telling. Cas knows of Dean’s poetic deficiency – to never sire another child, or to know pleasure in the act of it – and he has Dean’s full acknowledgement that it was Dean’s weakness that lead to their separation years ago. There’s nothing that Cas could have done in the past to salvage their engagement, for Dean’s choice overruled all.

What happened, happened because of Dean. What _is_ happening now, is because of Dean.

Prayer done, Dean stands and leaves his tent. His scribe – a member of the mercenary company, now tasked with letter-writing – rises from his seat near the entrance and hands over a parchment.

“They’re moved?” Dean says.

“Yes,” says the boy, Aidan. “All ready for the signal.”

“Good.”

It’s early still, and not yet fully light that Gasten will notice that the company guarding the castle has been reduced. The momentum of a siege is strange, and difficult to steer, but this exercise is small enough that Dean is hoping for a straightforward outcome.

“To me,” Dean says, and Aidan trots along after him towards the castle gates. As Dean moves, he nods at another pair of the company standing nearby, and they fall in on either side of him. “Let’s call on the Lady Cecily.”

Cas is up, too, his figure visible just at the edge of Dean’s vision, though Dean averts his gaze lest he be distracted. Cas knows he isn’t critical for today’s exchange of words, but no doubt he wishes to listen in.

Dean and his escort stand a relatively safe distance from the gate, and Aidan calls out to the guards as he has done the past few times when they’d sought to speak to the mistress of the castle. By all accounts this is all ordinary and almost routine, so when Lady Cecily makes appearance on the ramparts, she is more annoyed than concerned.

“What swift morning prayers Dean of Winchester makes,” Cecily calls out.

Dean tilts his head up and smiles, earning another of Cecily’s mild scowls. “Swifter still would be yours, seeing as that we’ll soon have the pleasure of Lord Crowley’s company.”

“Is that so?” Cecily says.

“You believe, of course, that he is bringing reinforcements,” Dean says.

“A pitiful siege as yours does not need reinforcements,” Cecily scoffs. “You have yet to loose a single stone from my walls.”

“And I’m sure all the folk of Gasten are perfectly comfortable being hemmed in those very walls. But let us set such petty matters aside.” Dean makes a show of turning to Aidan, who holds the parchment out as though for Dean to read. “I ask again, Lady Cecily, that you return the young mistress Claire to her father, Castiel. Not merely for her sake, or for her father’s sake, but for yours, as well.”

Cecily places a hand over her heart “Such kindness.”

“Even I wouldn’t wish the people of Gasten to be razed by their own Lord.” Dean pauses, letting the suggestion sink in. “For that is what he will do, in order to repay the insult you have made upon me, and the Campbell family.”

“This is your song for today?” Cecily says.

“My scribe would like to share a document with you. It is not the original, which is still kept in the Royal Haversham library, but a copy that my messenger was only able to retrieve for me last night. May my scribe approach?”

At Cecily’s irritated gesture, Aidan approaches the drawbridge, holding out the parchment for the closest guard to take. Leaning over to watch, Cecily snaps, “You still think Crowley cares any for a Campbell alliance? He has no need for alliance if he has your heir. He could very well marry Claire himself, and your whole house will be his.”

Dean ignores the crawl of his skin. “I suggest you read that first. I hadn’t spoke of this before, as I had to wait for evidence to set my word against Crowley’s.”

Aidan scurries back to Dean’s side, and there’s a handful of minutes as the missive is relayed up the building to Cecily’s hands.

Dean knows, without looking, that Cas is standing behind him – likely at a respectable distance, and just close enough to listen in without letting himself be part of the exchange.

Castiel asked Dean to fetch Claire, and fetch Claire he shall. Dean knows that Cas didn’t approve of the siege, and likely doubts his decision to take Dean on as Claire’s champion at all. These past days have seen Dean conjure and discard plan upon plan; this one they’re using today isn’t even the obviously best one. It is a risk like other risks.

Yet when Dean suggested it to Cas, he’d merely received a nod and the same instruction he’d had before: “I only want my daughter back.”

So Dean keeps his watchful eye on Cecily’s face, her surprise visible even from a distance. Lady Cecily is smart, and Dean hopes that will be enough of a push.

“I have had the same sent to Crowley,” Dean says. “He will understand its meaning, and he will know his best course of action is to blame you for the taking of Claire. How many times has he turned against his allies once they were perceived to be in his way? You should know that well enough.”

“This changes nothing—” Cecily protests.

“Claire is useless to him,” Dean says. “Which means you have kidnapped an unimportant child for spurious reasons. Worse yet, you have done it in such a way as to jeopardize a crucial new alliance between the houses of Crowley and Campbell.”

“But there are letters patent!” Cecily yells. “Mary Campbell sought to claim Claire for her own!”

“A negotiation tactic, never meant to be used.” Dean can feel Cas’ gaze on his back, and tries to ignore the rapid beating in his chest. “Were the letters marked with the royal seal? No, they were not, for the council knows of the testimony which you hold now in your hands, that prove that I cannot be Claire’s sire.”

Cecily turns to the people surrounding her, her voice just audible as she converses with her advisors. “This could be faked. A testimony – did Crowley know of this? Seven years ago – is that, is that right, could that be right? Could a patent override this? What does this mean?”

“It is there in writing, Lady Cecily!” Dean calls out, carrying his voice over the chatter above. “I never touched Castiel, so it is impossible that Claire could be the Campbell heir!”

There it is: Dean’s shame in writing.

In this, Dean can’t even blame Mary, elder Samuel, or any of the others. They had advised Dean to merely ( _merely_ ) let go of his attachment to Castiel, but in the aftermath, it was Dean who decided to offer a statement for the sake of the man he hoped would be able to move on.

Cecily now holds a copy of Dean’s testimony under oath to the royal council, which states that Dean swore before God that he’d had never lain with Castiel, and never known him as a husband. As a virgin, Castiel would be free to marry anyone else without repercussion or scandal, and what a marvelous idea it had been at the time. Dean had only thought of Cas’ future, of him breaking free of the taint of the engagement to Dean, and of him finding the fresh start he deserved.

Of course, Dean’s lie ended up cursing Castiel twice over. For by putting his signature to the statement, Dean had left Castiel with a child whose sire had already abandoned it, and in full writing. There would be no recourse for Castiel’s pregnancy, no justice he could claim from the House of Campbell.

Dean turns his head, a glutton for punishment.

Indeed, Cas is there a stone’s throw away, though his face is turned up at the castle. His expression is inscrutable, as it often is these days, so Dean feels no disappointment in learning nothing from it.

Dean’s wondered of it many times before, yet he wonders again now on how Cas reacted when he’d learned of Dean’s oath. Dean thinks that Cas wouldn’t have wept; not when Dean had abandoned him once already. The oath was merely a second seal on his actions, a confirmation that not only were they not, but that they never were.

But then Cas’ gaze sharpens, turned on Dean. His eyes are no longer blank, but they are focused, thoughtful, and free from the carefully-banked anger that Dean has known of these past weeks.

It is remarkable that even with the gulf between them, Dean thinks that he has never understood Cas better than he does in this moment. Dean may not know well the man Cas has become after all these years, but Cas’ priorities are as clear as ever.

Cas loves fiercely. And it is Claire who is now Cas’ world; this is a commendable way to be, for Claire will not betray Cas as has everyone else in his life. Dean understands everything of Cas’ choices, sacrifices, and even his anger and ability to work with Dean despite that anger. Claire’s well-being is of greater import than Cas, or Dean, or even what they were to each other.

So it is that Dean may not know the man that Cas has become, but he understands perfectly the choices that Cas has made. It is this understanding that has Dean certain of his love for Cas exactly as he is now, with all his passion and resentment and distrust, just as Dean loved who Cas used to be. It is not mere memory of their youth that has Dean ready to face Cecily, Crowley, or even Mary’s eventual wrath – nor is it the mere responsibility Dean towards for his daughter.

Dean loves, and this time that love will be enough to hold him where he stands.

Then Cecily shouts from the rampart: “A testimony can be unwritten!”

Dean turns back to her, his voice strong in his reply of: “Only by me, and I will not! Claire is not mine, and has no link whatsoever to the Campbells!”

He doesn’t add what should be obvious to the lady, which is that Crowley’s next step will affect all of them, but Gasten fortress most strongly. The people within are nominally Crowley’s and, like almost everyone in the world, subject to the whims of their lord. Unless, of course, they take another course as has been taken by others dissatisfied with their lot.

Dean catches Aidan’s eye, and he gives a subtle nod. Dean steps back, leaving the three by the gate to await Cecily’s conclusion.

Cas lifts his head at Dean’s approach, and says quietly, “They don’t sound unhappy enough.”

“Give it time. We were loud, and word will spread through the castle quickly.”

Cas studies said castle through a narrowed gaze, scrutinizing its inhabitants for the displeasure they hope to have incited. Cas’s mouth is a hard line – and Dean was not thinking of his newly-refreshed memory of said mouth parted in pleasure – and his whole body poised in impatient readiness.

“Castiel,” Dean says, the words tumbling out swiftly, “I’m sorry for marking you a whore again.”

Cas frowns in surprise. “I knew what you were going to tell Cecily. We _had_ discussed it.”

“Well, yes, but…” Dean licks his lips, his mouth dry. “Telling these people of my oath may serve a purpose now, but it didn’t when I actually _made_ it and – and that is not what you are.”

“I’ve long stopped caring what people think of me,” Cas says, and Dean’s ears must be deceiving him for the words almost sound kind. “You needn’t worry.”

“But you _do_ know that you’re – that you’re not…. You’ve used that word before, and I wondered if it’s something you, you think of yourself—”

“It’s not. I did think of myself that way for a while, but it passed. I knew what I was doing when I…” Cas looks down, smiling wryly. “I’m always aware of the risks involved in sharing myself. It’s always been done with a clear mind.”

Dean marvels that Cas can speak so easily of their couplings, both historical and recent. Cas may have had a clear mind when Dean took him into his mouth a few days ago, but Dean did not. It’s always taken great effort to be in Cas’ presence and not let the thoughts in Dean’s head unspool to uselessness.

Though one thing that Dean does share with Cas is the lack of regret in that meet of their bodies. There was no shame, no hurt – just comfort. (Cas is so beautiful.)

“Save your concern for Mary,” Cas says.

“There’s been no sign of her nor of any message from her,” Dean says. “She may not even know yet what’s happened.”

“She will hear of this sooner or later. And she will not be pleased of your setting a blockade in her plans to have Claire.”

Dean staggers back, the words striking hard. “I told you Mary would never have her. I swore.”

“Well, yes,” Cas says, unsettled, “but all words can be unmade one way or another—”

“Not this,” Dean snaps. “You will both be free. I’ll see to it.”

“Dean—” Cas starts, but Dean’s already turned away, face burning hot. “Dean, I didn’t mean to insult—”

“I accept the insult,” Dean says curtly, his feet taking him away before he can say anything else, or have to hear more than Cas’ quiet and confusing reply of, “You always do.”

Once, Dean had so easily discarded everything they’d been to each other for the sake of a short-sighted future that never came to pass. With that memory burning bright, Dean doesn’t blame Cas one wit for thinking that Dean might not commit to their current course. Finding the old testimony and bringing it to light is one thing, but Cas is correct that any words can be unmade by anyone with enough clout and money.

It is in action that there is true value.

Dean signals the closest of the company, a young woman named Olivia. “How goes it?” Dean asks her.

“The north east gate is still promising,” Olivia says in a low voice. “They asked for a repeat of the terms.”

“They’ll certainly want those terms once they know that Crowley’s plot has been blocked,” Dean says grimly. “Up the reward, and stay close. We can hold against Crowley if we have to, but I’d rather—”

A commotion cuts Dean off. One of the company on horseback rides out from the farther side of the castle, a hand raised in signal that one of the parties have gained access to the castle. Dean grins and lifts his own hand, causing the camp to erupt into action.

There is no lord of any fortress who can control every single person within their walls. All it takes is someone or someones fearful enough to take terms of surrender, when the threat directly before them is lesser than the threat to come.

“To arms!” Dean yells, just as the castle guards start running around in confusion. “To arms!”

Dean glances over his shoulder just then, but Cas is already moving back to the tents, fully cognizant of what is to come next and what his role is to be in the taking of the castle. Dean’s said his prayers already but he offers one more: that Cas and Claire are to be free, from Cecily, from Crowley, from all the wretched Campbells of the world.

Dean will prove his mettle in making that happen.


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel has never been in Gasten Castle before, but its layout is predictable enough. While Dean and company battle Cecily’s soldiers in the yard, Castiel slips past into the keep through the kitchens, moving amidst panicked and cowering servants who pay him little mind.

For his goal, Castiel waylays one of said servants – a boy, not yet tall enough to reach Castiel’s shoulders – and says quickly, “The Lady Claire. Take me to her and I will ensure you’ll not be harmed once we’ve taken the castle.”

“You—you’ll not—” the boy stammers. “My Lord Crowley is coming—”

“There will be days in wait between then and now,” Castiel says. “If you help me, I will reward you.”

It may be unkind, but it is necessary. Castiel frightens the boy enough to be lead deeper into the keep, up winding staircases and narrow corridors that have been left unguarded.

As Castiel climbs, he finds himself thinking of first siege he’d lived through. He’d been five years old at the time, and admittedly he doesn’t remember much of it, save the confusion of being bundled from one room to the next as each defense was breached. Claire is not much older now than Castiel was then, but she’s far smarter than he was, and knows well that she is the jewel of this siege’s focus.

At last they reach a barricaded door. The boy tries to flee but Castiel holds fast to his sleeve, and knocks on the door.

“News from the ground!” Castiel calls out. “I am the Lady Claire’s father, and my company has broken into the castle. You are hereby advised to open these doors to me.”

A pause, and then a muffled reply, “We shall only open by leave of our Lady Cecily.”

“Your Lady has fled in fear of the Duke,” Castiel says. It’s not the truth, but Cecily didn’t look particularly convinced about her cause the last he saw her on the battlements, watching the fighting. “He will come soon and claim retribution against those who’ve shamed him before the Campbells. Have you not heard this?”

Faint, furious voices argue behind the door. These are then drowned out by a young voice, as lovely as a bell and just as angry, “I bid you open to my Father!”

“Claire!” Castiel exclaims.

“They are frightened,” Claire says, “they say – don’t touch me, I want to speak to him!”

“Surely they know they can’t stay in there forever, let alone a few days,” Castiel says. “What food do you have in with you?”

“Not enough,” Claire replies.

Though a door stands between them, the strength of Claire’s voice is enough to unwind the knot of worry between Castiel’s shoulders. He presses a hand to the wood and breathes a thank you, along with a murmured hope that the rest of his prayer will be fulfilled as well.

“This cause is lost,” Castiel says. “Either we take the castle, or Crowley will. I leave it to you who will be more merciful.” Though there are more words parried across the closed door, these are the ones that hit the hardest.

The door creaks open, and for a minute or so Castiel cares of nothing else – not Cecily, nor Crowley, nor any Campbell breathing down their necks – except his daughter, well and whole though dressed in dark blue velvet as befitting a lady, leaping into his arms.

Castiel holds her for a great, long moment, and then kisses the top of her head, which is now covered by an unfamiliar headdress. “My Lady Claire.”

Claire pulls back and squints a familiar squint up at him. “That doesn’t sound right.”

Castiel laughs.

 

* * *

 

The plan is thus: upon Dean’s breaking the castle’s defenses, Castiel is to find Claire and take her away. Castiel even intends to fulfil this to the letter and, holding Claire’s hand, leads her back down the tower in the hopes of leaving by the way he came.

“They’re fighting!” Claire says in surprise, now that they’ve come closer to the outer wall and the clash of metal and bodies. “Dean – Dean is with them? Is he leading them?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “He’s taken many fortresses in his time. He knows how it’s to be done.”

Claire is quiet while they pause at a corner, avoiding persons running past, before resuming their way towards the stairs. “What of after, Father? You said the duke is coming.”

“Dean will bargain with Crowley,” Castiel says. “He’ll treat the trade like any other, and extract payment for the release of the castle. Once Crowley has lost you, he’ll _have_ to resume friendlier relations with the Campbells, Dean included.”

“But the duke can be—”

“Dean understands,” Castiel says. “He accepts the risk for you.”

Claire stops suddenly. “I don’t want him to.”

“Claire—”

“The duke can punish him,” Claire says, drawing her hands away from Castiel’s. “I listen to their chatter here, Father. They’re afraid of him. More than we were.”

“Dean is nobility. Even if he were to lose today’s fight, the code of chivalry ensures that Crowley must treat him—”

“Code of chivalry didn’t protect _me_ ,” Claire says, a little frantically. “I’m a lady, I’m a Campbell, but they took me and told me that the duke could command me to wed him.” She’s clearly afraid, but she still backs away from Castiel when he tries to take her hand again. This is far from the first time they’ve disagreed but Castiel is still shocked by it, that his child has fast formed into her own person to contradict him. She declares: “I don’t want Dean to take my place.”

“That’s different,” Castiel says. “Dean is an adult with greater protections. You’re a child, easier to use, and now not even a Campbell. Dean has declared that he isn’t your sire.”

Claire starts in surprise, though understanding settles over her features. “To protect me.”

“Yes, so you must allow his protections to work.”

For a second she wavers, but it passes and Claire juts her chin out. “Dean could’ve returned to Winchester, but he stayed with you to see this done. I wish to see it done, too.”

“Claire,” Castiel says, “we might not have another chance to flee.”

“Then we will _all_ be here. Please don’t be angry,” Claire adds quickly.

“I….” Castiel takes a deep breath. “I’m not angry, just frightened for you. It’s not safe to stay here.”

Claire bites her lip. “But we’re never safe. I—I don’t think? There’s nowhere _really_ safe.”

That brings Castiel up short. Claire is a child yet she is so sharp, though it’s not likely that she means for that sharpness to cut Castiel to the quick. Still, Castiel’s hands shake, and he finds himself turning away from his daughter in search of… what? An answer? A denial that does not sound like a lie?

Claire cannot remember the first few times that Castiel moved them from church to village to shire. But she remembers the others, as she remembers packing in the dark and leaving the scant few friends she’d managed to make without the chance of farewell. She’d only complained once, weeping at leaving the nun who’d taught her to read, and Castiel had foolishly thought that she’d accepted such movements as a necessity of life.

There is no kingdom truly safe; excepting perhaps the kingdom beyond the field of death, but even that, Castiel is no longer sure of. Theirs is a fragile world only made comfortable by the company one keeps, but even then, the life Castiel’s been able to offer Claire is more precarious than most.

She is right in this at least: there is nowhere truly safe, and they will never stop running. Thus, in the greater tale of their lives, what is the point of running? Claire is known now, and Crowley is but one lord with resources to trap Claire and misuse her, just as Mary Campbell is another, and the King above them both. The best chance may be to stand their ground with the resources they have, or to work out a deal as best suited for Claire’s protection.

But _freedom_ , the voice in Castiel’s head whispers. Freedom for Claire to be her own person, and to make her own choices.

Castiel looks at his daughter through a new sheen of awareness. Her eyes are imploring and determined. This is a choice _she_ is making; mayhaps the first choice of true weight she’s demanded of her father.

He wonders: how would Dean respond to this? He has no idea. Perhaps Dean would have a pithy reply, the kind that Castiel used to so admire; perhaps Dean would not say anything at all, and simply heft Claire up and carry her bodily out of the castle and away from immediate danger.

A touch on Castiel’s hand makes him start. Against all expectation, it is now Claire who is gazing up at him in concern.

“Father,” Claire says quietly. “Where have you gone?”

“I…” Castiel realizes that he’s exhausted. He’s been running for years and never allowed himself to feel tired before. “There’s nowhere really safe, but I must keep searching.” He can never rest until it is done, even if it will never be done.

Again, Castiel thinks of Dean, who has an unreachable goal of his own, forever trying to amend a wrong that can never be fully amended.

“Dean wishes you gone from here as much as I do,” Castiel says. “If Crowley takes you, then it was all for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Claire protests. “Dean could take the castle. Let’s see, let’s go see!”

Castiel is in a daze as Claire pulls him along, down the corridor to the nearest window that is the only source of light on this level. It is a narrow window, barred across, and just low enough that Claire can peer through it if she stands on her toes.

Even a minor skirmish can be frightening to watch, the more so when Dean is in the thick of it. He and a handful of his company are pushing their way towards a tower – likely they are still following the plan, and Dean is trying to capture Cecily and take straightforward custody of the castle.

Castiel’s never seen Dean fight before. Swordplay among classmates is a world away from stakes such as these, and Castiel simply may not have the stomach for it. Dean moves with ferocity, barking orders and swinging his sword, and in the midst of Castiel’s churning anxiety comes the thought: this is Dean fighting for his daughter.

It is not admiration nor pride that follows that realization. Instead it’s fear ( _more_ fear) – for Dean, for Claire, for himself, and for the awareness that Castiel has yearned for exactly this.

Despite all the bitterness of the past, Castiel had wanted Claire’s sire to love her. He does.

These thoughts are brought to halt at the sound of a scream in the tower opposite. Castiel’s head jerks up, in time for him to see two more of Dean’s company rush into the building. Claire tightens her grip on Castiel’s wrist, and they watch silently as the rest of the fight takes place inside the tower, and of the eventual escort of a stiff-backed Cecily out into the courtyard.

“Keys to the castle,” Castiel says. “There it is.”

Claire pushes herself further up onto her toes. “Oh, is that how it’s done.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once Cecily’s garrison is secured and Crowley’s colors are removed from the ramparts, Castiel brings Claire into the courtyard. Dean’s company are dispersed across the fortress to hold its gates, while Dean himself is standing before Cecily, fully occupied by the business of laying out his expectations for the holding of the castle.

It is to this scene that Castiel brings Claire.

Dean’s entire body jolts when he sees them, and he marches towards them with a face full of wrath. “Why in hell’s name are you still _here_?”

“Dean—” Castiel starts.

“God damn you, Cas,” Dean hisses. “You were free! What are you doing?”

Claire speaks up, though timidly. “It’s me, I didn’t want to go. Not—not until—I didn’t want to go.”

Dean’s eyes flicker to Claire, but only briefly. His focus is on Castiel, and it is to him that Dean spits, “Which of you is the adult? You let her make decisions for you now?”

“Don’t upset Claire,” Castiel says.

“ _Yes,_ I am upset!” Dean shouts, and Castiel feels Claire startle against his leg. “We just have the castle and now I need worry of you, too? You are meant to be _gone_ , you—”

Castiel takes a quick step away from Dean, and bends down to take Claire into his arms. This takes more effort than usual due to her trembling, and he tucks her head against his neck. “It’s all right,” Castiel says softly. “He’s not angry at you.”

Dean swears, though he’s gracious enough to only mouth the words instead of spitting them.

“We will see to Cecily’s household,” Castiel declares.

“Cas—”

“You are busy as well, I apologize.” Castiel bows quickly and marches back to the keep. Dean makes a sound as though to continue his protest, but cuts himself short. He knows, just as Castiel does, that there is much work to be done to properly secure the fortress. Any arguments to be had will just have to wait.

Castiel pauses inside the doorway, and glares at a nearby servant. “I will speak to the steward. You will bring him to me.”

“Yes, m’lord,” the servant says, scuttling away.

It isn’t time to relax yet but Castiel feels his shoulders slacken a little, and he adjusts his hold on his daughter. “Dean’s angry at me, not at you.”

“He—” Claire sniffs, and Castiel dabs her cheeks carefully. “Dean’s _face_.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “That is Dean of Winchester.”

 

* * *

 

 

It is well into night before Dean’s company is fully settled in the fortress, with all the keys collected, gates secured, and watches set to work. Castiel spends most of the day with Cecily, her steward, and her secretary, arranging the details of the company’s holding of the castle and seeing that the castle’s routines of cooking, cleaning and maintenance continue into this secondary portion of the siege.

Occasionally Dean shows up, mostly to ask Cecily questions. He and Castiel only speak briefly, and only on matters of the holding, thus making it clear that despite what others may have heard of their argument in the courtyard, Castiel may exercise Dean’s authority on the inhabitants of Gasten castle. Castiel does the best he can, arranging rooms for their use, meals for the company, and a polite accord with Cecily.

By the time Castiel realizes that he’s done all that is needed, Claire is long asleep. They’ve taken the secretary’s room of the lower floor of the keep, which is less secure, but Castiel has no wish to return Claire to the site of the previous captivity.

“That’ll do,” Castiel says, nodding at the secretary. “Leave the papers.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, bowing deep. “Good evening.”

A woman from Dean’s company is standing watch by the door, and she keeps her eyes on the secretary and his servant who, though both exhausted, rush down the hall. Castiel feels that exhaustion keenly himself, and drops into the chair by the desk. The company woman meets his eye and shares a rueful smile.

“That’s all business for today, thank you,” Castiel says. She nods and draws the door closed, but not all the way.

Castiel glances over to the bed, where Claire is fast asleep, blankets pulled up to her neck. This is a secretary’s room of a middling castle, but it’s still larger that their most recent cottage, and far more stuffy. Two candles are lit – one on the desk and one closer to the door, which is wasteful, but Castiel had wanted the secretary’s face clear during the last of their discussions.

It is then that Dean arrives, the door creaking open when he enters. Castiel looks up, wary; the day is done but he’s not in the mood for another argument. He quickly points at Claire, but Dean merely nods and shuts the door firmly behind him.

There is time yet before Crowley arrives. The last they spoke, Dean told Castiel he planned to ask a ransom for the castle, and would use Claire’s abduction as an insult against the House of Campbell. Those plans may change now due to Castiel and Claire’s presence, and it is just as well that they discuss that now, if Dean wishes.

Dean takes the chair from the other side of the room and brings it to the desk so he may sit by Castiel, their knees almost touching. For a few moments there is just the quiet, and Castiel watches the candle on the desk flicker.

“All is well?” Castiel asks, taking care to keep his voice low.

“For now,” Dean replies, equally softly. “Less so in a few days. Perhaps a week. I was to send another messenger to Mary by first light but…” His eyes narrow meaningfully.

Castiel speaks without thinking: “Claire learned the lesson you didn’t. She didn’t want to abandon you.”

Dean doesn’t react. Castiel reckons that if he’d said this yesterday, or even this morning, Dean would have flinched, but at this moment, he’s near-perfectly still. His expression is solemn, thoughtful.

“It would’ve been a trade well-made.” Dean says this quietly, simply, and with none of the bite of earlier. He has no strength for an argument either.

“Well-made, perhaps,” Castiel says, “but at a cost she refuses to bear.”

Castiel thinks about Claire, who is becoming a person far sooner than he’d expected. He thinks about Dean, for years wearing an unseen hairshirt of his betrayal. He thinks of himself, and whom he might have been had different choices been made.

A soft huff from Dean, and Castiel lifts his gaze to study him. What does Dean reflect on tonight, in the dim light of this strange room of this unfamiliar castle.

“Do you remember,” Castiel says, “how we’d agreed to meet at Warren Port?”

“Yes,” Dean says.

“Zachariah found me there. It took him a few days, but he did, and he brought me back to my family for substantial reward. I was under house arrest, though of course Naomi did not call it such. I stayed in my room with Father Isham as my main companion, for he did so enjoy informing me the full details of my error. That was all I was allowed to know, for no news came of the outside world, especially of you. It was then, during that interminable wait, that I found that I was pregnant.”

Dean was unmoving before, but that was in tiredness. Now he is rigid, frozen by Castiel’s words.

“It gave me a righteous joy,” Castiel says. “My quickening was my triumph, and with it I sought an audience with Naomi. I still remember how I felt when I marched into her study that day, head high and declaring that I had your child. That was when she told me what you’d done.”

Dean clenches his jaw, and nods.

“Pride to humiliation, at a stroke.” Castiel swallows. “My child, a bastard, because her sire had sworn before God that he’d never touched me. Oh, I could’ve challenged it – Uriel insisted as much, if only to bring the Campbells down a notch, but I still thought that you were being moved by others. I hoped that my letters to you were returned unread by Mary’s command, not yours, and that you could free yourself somehow. I waited, until I could wait no more.”

There is no fight from Dean here either, though Castiel did not expect any. There’s been little fight in Dean at all over these weeks, since that day in the marketplace when Castiel had been shocked by his presence – the way Dean’s eyes lit up in surprise and relief and delighted recognition of him. It is only today that Dean’s proven that side of him still exists, in his spitting rage that he and Claire had not left as they’d promised.

But that was wrath born from fear. Claire has trembled at the sight of it, but Castiel had read other meaning in it, just as he has read other meaning in Dean’s patience and persistence over these weeks, and of his submission to everything asked of him.

“Cecily’s horses will be well-rested,” Dean says. “You and Claire can still leave in the morning, and with better provisions. This may turn out for the better in the end.”

“Did you love me, Dean?” Castiel asks. “Back then.”

Dean turns away, and Castiel wonders if he intends to lie. Then he says, voice barely audible, “Yes, but not enough.”

There is an oppressive weight in Castiel’s chest, making it is a struggle to speak next. “Could you love me enough now?”

A choked sound from behind Dean’s hand, for he has covered his face. “No.”

Castiel takes a deep, rattling breath. “So there’s no chance of you loving me still?”

“Still? Yes,” Dean whispers, and Castiel’s hands shake. “I do. But not enough. Never enough.”

Castiel’s eyes itch. His long-unused tear ducts have been made to work a great deal of late. “Truth be told, I don’t know if _I’m_ strong enough.”

Dean brings his hands down, startled. “You are.”

“I’ve never begrudged a second of my duty to Claire, but I always wonder if I am sufficient for the task.” This confession has only ever been shared in church. “There is no well in the world that cannot be drained dry, and sometimes I think I will be. I _will_ be.”

“No,” Dean breathes, taking Castiel’s hand in his. “You are the bravest, strongest—”

“Just words,” Castiel says. “You haven’t been here. You don’t know.”

Dean’s mouth falls open, his face wretched.

Castiel looks down at his hands, startled at the drops of tears on his palms. He’d only cried the once after Dean abandoned him. It was once he’d found his way to the monastery and been taken into sanctuary, and that first night in the cell the enormity of what he’d lost fell upon him in a swoop. But that was once, and only the once.

Hence, there are years-worth of feeling that have been pent up by sheer force of will, and released only now.

Castiel weeps. He is tired from this day, from the days before worrying about Claire, from the weeks all across of Dean’s presence as a thorn pushed in deep and immovable. Castiel had seen today what it could’ve been to have Dean as a champion – not just for Claire, but for _Castiel_ , and dear God, he grieves for that loss.

All these years he’s made do, but with Dean so close Castiel remembers will full clarity how their future together had seemed so assured and so close, instead of a half-baked dream of boys in their youth. Worse still is the discovery that’s Castiel weakness hasn’t been fully burned out of him – he still _wants that future_ , and that want has been lying dormant, a dried root waiting through a harsh winter for the coming of spring.

Dean is holding him. Dean’s arms are around him, Dean’s shoulder is under Castiel’s cheek, and Dean’s whispering sounds of comfort and apology in his ear.

Castiel weeps for all he’d lost, all he’d borne alone, all the burdens he wishes he’d had Dean to share. He weeps until the shame fades, and all that’s left is the feel of Dean’s arms bracketing him in a loose imitation of safety. For a second Castiel imagines it being a true safety with a beloved husband, and he mourns that, too.

“Cas,” Dean says, soft and shaken. “Cas.”

“I wish to be rid of you, but Claire stays my hand. She wishes you near. As do I.” Castiel feels Dean shudder against him, and adds, “If you are near long enough, I think I could forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Dean says.

“You have no say in what I should or should not do.” Castiel heaves for breath, and the oath he makes next rings truthful and startling in the stone-solid walls of the room. “By _God_ , I don’t want to do this alone anymore.”

Dean draws back, eyes wide in the dim light. Castiel swallows, feeling himself weaker in this moment than he was when the monks put Claire in his arms the first time.

It would’ve been peaceable for them if Mary never found them that day in the woods, but so goes the turn of fate. He and Claire are known now, and this is a hurdle just that much higher than other hurdles they’ve faced thus far. Oh, if only Castiel’s exile could be a solitary one, for then he would’ve sought some distant church or library to sequester himself in. But Claire needs to read and be around others, and eventually find a trade or destiny of her own.

“There are things…” Dean says hesitantly.

“I _know_.” Castiel exhales slowly. “There is the world beyond what we small mortals wish for. I know.”

He starts to pull away, but is held still by Dean’s grip on his forearms. Castiel realizes that Dean is frowning, gaze off to the middle-distance as he thinks.

“All dangers come from Claire’s connection to me,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“We could publish the oath,” Dean says. “My oath, supplemented by yours, if you would make one before a cleric, severs all ties between us.”

“Lie?” Castiel says disbelief. “You ask me to lie under God’s name?”

“You believe in a God who understands,” Dean says, so plainly that Castiel can only stare. “Or you did, once? Perhaps He is harsher now, in your estimation.”

Dissent rises to Castiel’s lips, but his thoughts spin wildly – thinking of how such a coupled oath would make her a less attractive prospect to most, including Crowley. Mary would be forced to set her word against both of them, which would hardly make Claire the straightforward, unopposed heir she hoped for. It would be as much a battle to retain Claire’s rights as it is to prove them at all.

“It can still be undone by command of the king,” Castiel finds himself saying. “And Mary would never let go entirely—”

“Not unless there is another, more attractive heir.” Dean smiles ruefully. “For that I can only hope that Sam has better luck. But a mirror oath from you – would that help? If the king himself endorses it, it would make it all the harder for _anyone_ to retract.”

Castiel sits back, surprised. “The king? You’d ask Michael for a pittance as this?”

“It wouldn’t be a pittance to him,” Dean says. “We are out of favor at the moment, and he’d enjoy snipping a wayward branch of our line. There are ways to bring this to his attention, and to make it seem that it is his idea. The more so that it would stifle Crowley’s attempts to make amends with the Campbells.”

“That would take time,” Castiel says. “And Mary would not be happy.”

“I agree with both,” Dean says. “But I can do it. Would it help?”

Castiel has been beyond courtly matters for so long, but it seems too foolish to invest that much effort for the sake of a girl from nowhere who may not even be needed as the heir of a great House. Of course, if Castiel were in Dean’s place, and had the means to do such a thing, he would do it in a heartbeat, no question, for Claire is his daughter.

Claire is Dean’s daughter, too.

Castiel may have stayed in Gasten at the behest of his daughter, but the desire to flee is merely stifled, not erased. Even then, what distance would be enough? Virian? The Key islands? The very edge of the world?

“I could set up an allowance for Claire.” Dean speaks carefully, eyes darting from side to side as he thinks. “For books, learning trade, whatever she needs. I’m a Campbell, a patron to many, so it wouldn’t be a wardship. Lords take interest in any manner of people, as is their discretion. Claire would come under my protection as a young woman whose potential I recognize.”

“I would be known as well, if I make an oath,” Castiel says.

“Even if people remember that we – what we were to each other…” Dean pauses, swallowing. “It would be easy to believe that I would take interest in the child of your body.”

“Pity for a former sweetheart?” Castiel nods. “It happens often enough. But this means you can never acknowledge Claire as yours.”

Dean shrugs. “Far from the hardest sacrifice to make.”

“Is it? In the eyes of others you’d be lowering yourself to protect the bastard child your former sweetheart had with another man.”

Dean rubs his arms, though there’s been no change of temperature in the room. “It’s best I not care so much what others think of me. Especially not when _you’d_ be facing the true risk in this venture.”

For this would require trusting Dean and his capabilities                 as a lord, as well as being within grabbing distance of those who may still misuse Claire. But if Castiel had some means, he’d do more for this venture than merely making an oath that Dean isn’t Claire’s sire. He’d search for other documents on their failed engagement – letters commanding their separation, for starters – to enrich the evidence against Campbell’s ability to claim her.

Oh, the possibilities if they needn’t run anymore! Claire could make friends to keep, attend a proper school, and spend more time with Dean as she wishes. Instead of using most of their money in moving from place to place, they could have a more comfortable home, and Claire could spend less time at work.

Castiel deflates. “It’s too much. I can’t ask—”

Dean touches Castiel’s cheek, shocking him into silence. Castiel stares at Dean while he brushes over the dampness under his eyes, and Dean’s voice is quiet but determined: “I would do this not merely for Claire, but for you.”

“For me?” Castiel whispers, startled.

“If you want it,” Dean says. “I know my promises mean nothing, so I won’t swear on it. But I would do it all, as long as I knew that you’d welcome it. No, don’t answer yet. Tomorrow? Let’s both think it through.”

“Yes, that’s good.” Castiel looks down at Dean’s hand, still settled at Castiel’s chin. His mind screams – _weakness!_ – but Castiel’s eyes drift shut, and he leans into Dean’s palm.

He is only human, in the end.

“Cas,” Dean says, very quietly.

Castiel nods a little, and then Dean’s holding him again, arms solid bands around his body. Castiel wonders when the last time anyone who wasn’t Claire touched him, though even if he remembers any, it wouldn’t have been like this. Dean’s fingers are calloused and gentle across Castiel’s cheek, behind his ear and down his neck. Castiel shivers and presses his face to Dean’s shoulder.

This isn’t at all like their recent coupling in the tent. Castiel had taken pleasure from Dean’s mouth and fingers, but this is what truly leaves him breathless.

It is an age before Castiel’s back protests, reminding him of sleep. Dean lets him go easily, but cups Castiel’s face again and says, “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Dean kisses Castiel’s hands, his lips soft against the knuckles. Castiel feels a tremor low in his stomach but seals those emotions tight, focusing instead on Dean’s intent, and the tenderness of his eyes as he takes his leave. Dean will sleep elsewhere tonight, with the rest of his company.

Castiel watches him go, blows one candle out, and sits in the dark for a while longer.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, after Castiel has seen to Claire’s ablutions and they’ve had a simple breakfast delivered by Cecily’s servants, the pair of them make their way out to the main keep. Dean’s overseeing repairs by the north-east tower, though he detaches himself from the steward and servants as they approach.

“Good morning,” Dean says. “Castiel. My lady Claire.”

Claire curtsies, and makes a face having done so. “Our tempers are better, my lord?”

Dean purses his mouth, amused. “Yes.” He meets Castiel’s eye, and smiles hesitantly. “Come, let’s observe the view.”

They climb the tower, Dean at first leading the way, and then hefting Claire into his arms when she slips on a step. Castiel follows them all the way up and onto the parapet, and notes that there is very little view indeed with the morning fog settled across the river and plains.

“Crowley will likely be making his approach from there.” Dean adjusts his hold on Claire, and points with his free hand. “Our last scout saw him in making through the king’s road, but he would’ve heard by now that we’ve taken the castle. Likely he would’ve returned to the fastest route, though I think he will send a herald before he arrives.”

“What will you tell the herald?” Castiel asks.

“No change from what we’d last discussed. The castle is held in retribution for the insult to the House of Campbell, and I will repeat the oath, now held in writing.” Dean sighs. “Crowley won’t siege the castle. He can’t afford to waste soldiers and equipment for this, not with his summer campaign so close.”

“What will you offer?”

“A resumption of his alliance with the Campbells,” Dean says. “Bygones are bygones. He will have his castle returned to him, and you will have your safe conduct to leave.”

“We will all have our safe conduct to leave,” Castiel says. “Assuming he doesn’t have other conditions.”

“But that’s unfair,” Claire says. “He started it.”

Dean hums sympathetically. “There is no justice but what we can enforce.”

The three of them stand there for a while longer, though the conversation is held mostly by Dean and Claire as she asks questions – about the castle, what they’ve been doing while they were separated from her, what else Dean knows of Crowley – that Dean answers. Castiel offers an aside here and there, but otherwise speaks rarely, for his thoughts are occupied by other matters.

Specifically, Castiel is thinking about how a long time ago, he’d taken for granted that one day he and Dean would do precisely what they are doing at this moment: standing together, overlooking the land of a fortress, their child between them and sharing of their wisdom. This was Castiel’s dream, but so distorted and blemished that it can only be recognized with a great deal of effort.

There are other things that take a great deal of effort to recognize, too. Castiel shifts his attention from the view to the side of Dean’s face, noting his alert eyes and his mouth slanted in a smile as he listens to Claire.

If Castiel could, for a second, step out of his shoes and look upon Dean as a stranger would, what would he see? A man haunted by past mistakes and working hard to tip the scales of the universe back in other direction. Dean has passion, but he has patience and perseverance as well – the latter traits being new to the man Dean is, as compared to the boy that Dean was.

Castiel could admire a man like that. Or love him, even.

Of course, there is no chance of Castiel taking a knife to their past, and cutting out the portions that they wish never happened. There is only what is now, and what is to be.

At last Dean says, “Castiel.” He speaks confidently, as though this is just another matter to be discussed, though Castiel can hear the tremor beneath. “I wish to know…Should I call for a horse for you?”

Claire wriggles in Dean’s arms to looks over at Castiel. “Horse?”

“The danger of Crowley’s approach remains,” Castiel says. “But there is danger in being on the road with him so close. It is one or the other.”

Claire bites her lip.

“Maybe later,” Castiel says. “Or tomorrow. There’s still a great deal to talk over first.”

Dean nods slowly. “Are you considering my suggestion from last night?”

“I… do not mislike it,” Castiel says carefully. “Though it needs to be discussed more before any decisions are made.”

“Ah.” Here, Dean’s tone betrays nothing, and Castiel dare not look at him. The moment stretches on, uncertainty lingering between them, until Dean shifts his grip on Claire and says to her, “Is that agreeable with you, my lady?”

“Yes?” Claire says. Then, with more confidence: “Yes.”


	12. EPILOGUE

It seems to Dean that the entirety of their walk from the schoolhouse, Claire only stops to breathe a handful of times.

There’s so much to tell him, apparently: the young man who lives above them has a lute that he plays poorly; Sister Donna’s schoolroom has two new girls, both of them unwelcome competition for the matron’s attention; last week a merchant came through the town to show off her new husband and Claire sampled her first cup of fountain wine, which did not impress her at all.

Dean listens to all of it in good cheer, and resists brushing the top of her head whenever she bumps into his arm. Dean would be far more content if he could carry her but, alas, she’s above such things now and insists on walking at his side, only every so often peering up at him under her hood. By Claire’s measure she’s being the fine hostess who’s leading Dean back to her home, instead of Dean being the one who’d fetched her at her church schoolhouse soon after disembarking at the docks.

“I feel a knighthood’s less attractive,” Claire says. “Are you disappointed?”

“I will teach you how to handle a sword, knight or not,” Dean says. “What shall you be, then?”

“A cardinal,” Claire says. “Then I can _oversee_ my lord’s knights, and command them to my pleasure.”

Dean scowls at Claire, who laughs. “That’s… not necessarily how it works. It would be akin to saying that you wish to be a sailor, so you could find the ends of the earth. A possibility, but unlikely.”

“I shall be a cardinal,” Claire says firmly. “But I’d be content to be a bishop.”

“A warlike bishop,” Dean mutters.

“St. Anael was a warlike bishop! And she’s a saint!”

“Right, right. No offense meant.”

The townhouse that is Cas and Claire’s home comes into view. Port Wilkemen is a bustling merchant town, a new settlement that landed nobility turn their noses down on, but it’s worked well enough for their purpose. Each time that Dean’s come to visit there’s something new to see, or some change to remark on. But the street of their townhouse is almost precisely as Dean remembers, save that the shops along the street level have new fronts.

“The Baron had the facades redone,” Claire says. “This street has more traffic now with the new eastward road opening up.”

“Your father wrote that he’s had new work with letter-writing,” Dean says. “Is that done at the church as well, or here?”

“He has them come to the cloth shop,” Claire says. “Hester lets him use the desk, in return for a small cut of his earnings. Most of his customers are young people from outside the city who’ve no confidence with letters, or cannot write at all. He appreciates the work, but I think he’s sometimes impatient at the stupidity of people.”

“That does sound like your father,” Dean says, and Claire grins.

They enter the connecting staircase from the street level, Claire leading the way. Dean’s done this a few times already, but every time he climbs these stairs his heartbeat quickens, and there’s a flash of dread that he shouldn’t be doing this, and that he’s a fool for thinking that he’s still welcome. But the moment passes, and by the time Claire opens the door, Dean’s heartbeat is quick for entirely different reasons.

Cas is not in front room, though he comes at the sound of their arrival. His eyes move over Claire quickly with a father’s concern, and then settle on Dean. Cas smiles.

“Good winds, then,” Cas says.

“Yes.” Dean turns a little, displaying his bags. “And gifts.”

“Help him unpack.” Cas shakes his head when Claire groans in dismay. “Come.”

The three of them settle at the table, taking out Dean’s carefully-wrapped packages of fruit, cured meat and fine linens. Cas usually has some comment at this juncture, reminding Dean that his and Claire’s resources are well-managed, but this time he only tells Claire what to do with each, and chides her when she handles anything poorly.

Dean takes this opportunity to observe Cas. The beard has been gone for over a year, a sign of his acceptance of their settlement in Wilkemen, but he’s shaved again recently and the skin around his lovely mouth is smooth to the eye. His hair is trimmed, too, the subtle curls behind his ears in a loose imitation of local style, perhaps at Claire’s urging. His eyes are alert as ever, for they now meet Dean’s – the observation is mutual. Dean swallows the rest of his unnecessary nerves.

This ritual is a strange thing, and not for the first time Dean marvels at the peculiarity of something that by all accounts is a universal experience. It is normal and accepted for married nobility to be separated for months, sometimes years, at a time for the sake of duty, be it a war to be fought, a region to be held, a greater master to be served. He thinks of Bill, away on the old continent to serve his Duke, who only met his daughter Joanna Beth when she’d already learned her letters. He thinks of his own parents, having to control such a vast realm that it’s marvelous indeed if they’re able to spend half the year in each other’s company.

Dean reckons of all this, and is grateful for what he has.

“There’s also,” Dean pauses, coughing. “News from Winchester, if you’ve not yet heard it. Jessica has given birth. Mother and son are well.”

Cas inhales sharply, eyes wide. He turns away, blinks a few times, though by the time he turns back his expression calmed. Claire, who is far less affected, offers her hand in comfort, and Cas takes it.

“Congratulations to your family,” Cas says. “A cousin for you, Claire.”

Claire makes a face, trying to picture ties to an extended family that she barely knows. “So you’ll return for the baptism?” she asks.

Dean clears throat. “I thought I might stay for the winter.”

“For the whole winter?” _This_ is news to shock Claire, and she bounds up to her feet. “You could? You can?”

“The royal coffers are near-dry from the king’s failed crusade,” Dean says. “He has his angry barons to deal with, and funding to raise. Your grandmother will be preoccupied in strengthening her own power base during this lull, especially now her branch of the family is strengthened. I’ve been sent away on a mission of recovering some lost property on this side of the straits, but… it is understood that I’m on outs.”

“Because of your new nephew,” Cas says. “Mary is maneuvering Sam into place to inherit her realm.”

“He’s well-prepared for it.” Dean shrugs. “I’ve held off the wolves for long enough, and now it’s his turn—argh.” Dean almost tips over when Claire throws herself at him, arms squeezing tight while he pretends to struggle for breath. “Claire.”

“Can you buy the upper floor?” Claire asks, while Cas huffs a warning. “If you’re to be here more—”

“Claire,” Cas says.

“Why not!” Claire tightens her hold around Dean. “He could. He _should_.”

“Let’s take it a step at a time,” Cas says, and Dean murmurs an agreement. “As in all things. Yes?”

Claire looses a disagreeable whine, which she only stops when Dean maneuvers her to lay half-splayed across his lap. “All right,” Claire says petulantly. “Did you bring me anything else?”

“A miniature of your uncle and aunt,” Dean says. “And an illuminated manuscript from your grandmother.”

Cas sighs. “Mary knows we can’t sell those.”

“She does,” Dean agrees. “Thus why she’s sent another.”

“I enjoyed the first one,” Claire says, chin jutted out. “The artwork is beautiful, and the romance is inspiring. What is this one about?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “She had it wrapped especially for you, so I haven’t seen its contents. We can have a look together.”

Evening approaches, so after unpacking Dean’s things and having a quick supper of bread and cheese, Claire takes her leave to visit Lady Jody’s salon. Judging from Cas’s face he doesn’t entirely approve of this activity, which Dean understands is due to Lady Jody’s status as a wealthy businesswoman with a seat on Wilkemen’s council, but Claire learns a great deal of poetry, fine language and skills of friendship at these irregular sessions.

Dean’s never attended a salon before, but from descriptions he’s heard, he imagines that they’re the merchant class’s equivalent of a court, but with nicer food.

“There.” Cas adjusts Claire’s belt and kisses the top of her head. “Behave yourself. Don’t go into the street without Rachel.”

“I always do,” Claire says.

Dean watches Cas lock the door behind her, and then releases a long exhale. Cas’s smile is small and rueful, and he shrugs.

“There’s more spirit to her now,” Dean observes.

“Yes,” Cas says. “It was inevitable, yet I’m unprepared for it.”

“Earlier she told me she wishes to become a cardinal.” When Cas doesn’t reply, Dean adds, “If she does commit to that path, I’ll do what I can for her. As would my brother. Is it Cardinal Tamara who’s placed such ideas in her head?”

“If only there were one person to blame,” Cas says with a sigh. “Isn’t it just the way of the world? I do all I can to keep her away from the viper’s nest, and she decides to poke an entirely different nest on her own accord.”

“Would it be unkind of me to point out that the difference lies in having a choice in the matter?” When Cas glares at him, Dean adds gently, “Perhaps it’s a passing fancy?”

“God knows!” Cas rubs a hand to his temple as he moves away from the door. “And here I thought my greatest worry would be the rush of suitors clamoring for her attention. That’s still a few years away—”

Dean makes a choked sound. “She’s not yet ten!”

“She is fair and beautiful.” Cas scowls at Dean, as though that’s his fault. “It will happen. Though I think she’ll have found some purpose long before that.”

His frown doesn’t ease even as Dean approaches him tentatively, for this is also part of the ritual between them. Dean waits and watches each step, before finally coming close enough to slip his hands into Cas’s and squeezing gently.

“Every time you return is a surprise,” Cas says quietly. “Even with your letters, even with…”

Dean nods, and closes his eyes as Cas kisses him. “It’s a surprise for me, as well.”

“You can’t be here too often, I know.” Cas drifts forward, almost unconsciously, until his face can rest upon Dean’s shoulder. “Even Claire will leave eventually, in search of her future.”

“A day at a time, Cas,” Dean says, though Cas isn’t saying anything that Dean hasn’t already thought of back to front and front to back, so to line up a series of possibilities that may be executed as soon as the time is right. “Isn’t that how it goes?”

“Mmm.” Cas draws back and scrutinizes Dean through narrowed eyes. “You’re tired.”

“It’s fine, I’m… Oh, all right.”

Dean allows Cas to pull him along to the back room, Cas a gracious host to Dean’s honored guest. Dean feels no pang of misery at this, for it is more glorious to bask in Cas’s attention, in the way he scowls at the new lines around Dean’s eyes, or the way he shakes his head when Dean’s movement betrays the stiffness in his back.

“Seasickness becomes you.” Cas has Dean stand before the pallet bed, and clucks his tongue when Dean starts at the knots of his outer jacket. “Let me.”

Dean flushes. “Cas, I don’t…”

“Let me,” Cas says firmly.

Dean drops his arms to his sides, and does his best to stand still while Cas undoes the knots and clasps of his clothes. Cas’s focus is absolute, though he is kind enough not to point out Dean’s face, which must be bright red at his ministrations.

They are not married, and likely will never be able to marry in their lifetime. (Or Mary’s lifetime.) But when they’re alone like this, it’s as though a mantle of matrimony settles over them, like a bejeweled cloak that’s only taken out for special occasions. Dean’s fingertips certainly seem to tremble in need to reach out – husband, _husband_ – as Cas carefully helps him out of his boots.

“A nap?” Cas says. “I’ll do my mending and watch over you.”

Dean, down to his chemise and breeches, realizes that he actually is tired. He lies down, and though he wishes to admire the sight of Cas for a while longer, falls asleep.

He jolts awake not too long later and, for a second, is disoriented by his surroundings. He relaxes at the sight of Cas, who is sitting on the pallet with him, half-bent over a blouse. Dean glances over his shoulder to observe the slant of the sunlight through the windows, noting that not too much time can have passed.

Dean settles back on the mattress, and this time lets his gaze move slowly over his prize. Cas is sitting close, his hip almost touching the side of Dean’s chest, and he’d not even bothered to move when Dean woke up. Cas is beautiful in the dimming light, which catches his nose and cheeks so becomingly. Here is Dean’s refuge, his little hideaway across the water and (mostly) away from prying eyes, where he can simply be. Let the Campbells think of this as Dean’s as distraction, taking him away from courtly pleasures and power; those who are important know the truth.

Heavy with lethargy, Dean lifts a hand and settles his palm to the back of Castiel’s neck. He grips not tightly, but gently, just to be sure of Cas’s presence – he is no changeling or fae, but a real man, and all the more bewitching for it.

Dean moves his hand, bringing it along a slow, lingering path down Cas’s back, following the shape of his spine down to the dip in lower back. Cas is warm, his body strong to the touch. The skin of Dean’s palm tingles with the pleasure of it.

Cas puts his mending down and they look at each other.

“I missed you,” Cas whispers. “A great deal.”

Dean need not say that it’s the same for him as well, for Cas already knows. Instead, Dean nods, accepting the admission for the show of vulnerability that it is.

“I’ve missed you the whole time,” Cas adds. “Even when you left me and I hated you, I yearned for your presence. I yearn for you even now, though you’re here.”

Things have much improved between them, but Cas has never said such a thing out loud before. Whenever they do talk of that period of Dean’s failing and Cas’s struggles in between, it’s with a calmness of a past that cannot be undone, only accepted. A few times Cas has even managed to joke of it – following Claire’s lead, for that girl has turned out to have a shocking sense of humor – but they’d left tears to long ago.

No tears today either. Dean’s throat is thick, and he merely nods.

Cas puts his mending away and comes to join Dean on the mattress, stretching out alongside him. They kiss until the kisses grow deep, with Dean’s hands as much on Cas’s body as is the other way round. Cas is warm, solid and smells wonderful, but there are still needs to be met. Dean twists the string of Castiel’s shirt around his finger and tugs, urging.

“Show me,” Dean says. “I want to see you.”

Dean may not have Cas as a husband would, but Cas does not share Dean’s shame for his condition. Cas casts aside his hose and shirt with ease, setting his body on display for Dean’s eyes and hands to enjoy. Dean touches all of him, shaking with greed even now, and then places his right hand on his thigh, fingers turned up for Cas’s use.

Cas rides Dean’s hand as he would do the member if it weren’t useless. Cas moans his pleasure, and Dean moans with him, enthralled in ways other than full arousal. Cas moves with confidence, riding him while Dean drags his free hand over Cas’s chest and nipples, and down further to rub the delicate skin between Cas’s legs. Dean grins, crooks the fingers inside Cas, and takes Cas’s high-pitched gasp as his reward.

It should not be so, but it seems to Dean there is _some_ transference of pleasure from Cas’s body to his. When Cas reaches his apex, his head thrown back and eyes shut, a shivering relief crests over Dean like a wave, settling over his body in an echo of Cas’s orgasm.

In the aftermath Dean gets up to lay a sated Cas across the mattress, and drops thankful kisses across the points of his body – his nose, his neck, the dip above his navel.

Cas smiles up at him, lopsided and lazy. “I am well-used, sir.”

“Indeed,” Dean agrees, feeling the tenderness of Cas’s opening against his thumb. “You’re most generous.”

“I’m…?” Cas grabs Dean’s forearm and pulls him down, so to be more thoroughly kissed. When Dean is released, it is only so Cas can tell him, “I’m so grateful to have found you again.”

Dean shivers again, and tucks his head against Cas’s collarbone while Cas holds him.

Contentment settles over Dean like a blanket, and he would fall into another doze again if he didn’t feel Cas suddenly stiffen against him. Dean tilts his head back a little, curious and confused, and is not at all helped by Cas’s wide-eyed stare at him.

“Dean.” Cas’s fingertips travel down Dean’s side, over his hip and inward. It’s only then, at a carefully touch on Dean’s thigh, does he understand Cas’s meaning.

Dean shifts back a little, so there’s space between their bodies. They’re both holding their breaths as Cas reaches down and carefully unties the string of Dean’s breeches, drawing the cloth open.

“A sunrise!” Cas says.

Dean’s afraid to move, fearing this another dream to be woken from. But Cas has no such compunctions, and with deft fingers he draws Dean’s member out. Dean hisses, unused to the sensation on newly-sensitized skin, and it’s only once the dizziness has passed that he can join Cas in study of his partially-stiffened cock.

“Perhaps your curse is finally lifted,” Dean ventures.

“ _My_ curse?” Cas says.

“A possibility as likely as any other.” Dean gasps when Cas wraps his fingers around his shaft, testing the firmness of it. “You’ve had ample opportunity to curse me to all the Heavens. And now, with Sam having issue of his own body…”

Cas’s mouth thins, and he kisses Dean firmly. “A curse from me would rebound to me. And as I find my life now blessed, you must send your accusations elsewhere.”

Though with Cas’s hand on him, Dean doesn’t find release, not today. There is pleasure from Cas’s fingers but it’s too sharp, too new after all this time. After the first few pulls Dean swears and shakes his head, overwhelmed.

“We’ll try again.” Cas tucks Dean back in his breeches, the length of him already softening. “Shall we try again later?”

An assumption spoken out loud is risky, so Dean doesn’t say what he thinks: yes, for they have time for it. Cas seems to hear it anyway, for he draws Dean back into his arms, and holds him with a proprietary firmness.

“I am blessed as well,” Dean says, and he smiles when Cas cuddles closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to flyingcatstiel for your hand-holding, beta help and general cheerleading in getting this thing DONE. No idea if this thing would've worked out otherwise. ♥ Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> And to readers who stuck with this as it got stalled quite a few times... Thank you for your patience!


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